


Five For Fighting

by InsaneTrollLogic



Series: Hockey!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Sports, Gen, Hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneTrollLogic/pseuds/InsaneTrollLogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Winchester brothers hockey was always something apart from hunting until one season it suddenly wasn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lawrence Rage

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ. Completed 1/31/2010.
> 
> I believe that every fandom needs an NHL!AU. One of the most self-indulgent things I've ever written, but also one of the most _fun_

The locker room of the Lawrence Rage was quiet when Dean Winchester walked in. It was a hazard of any new expansion team. They were the cast offs. The best players around that their own team failed to protect plus a half dozen from the farm club, a few of them still in the zit-speckled throws of puberty.  
  
He walked slowly past through the room and threw his bag in the locker. There was a jersey ready for him. D. Winchester. Still #67 just like it was back in Boston. He pulled out his skates and started to lace them up. His brother, Sam came into the room a few seconds later and pulled his skates out of the locker next to him. “This should be interesting.”  
  
“Honestly,” Dean hissed. “The only good thing to come out of this is you and me back on the ice together.”  
  
“Look at Winchester talking like he would have gotten a chance it hadn’t been for the Rage,” Gordon Walker said, coming into the room. Dean winced. He’d had more than a few run-ins with the big rig from the Avalanche over the years.   
  
“The ACL’s healed up fine,” Sam snapped. “He’s been rehabbing all summer, right Dean?”  
  
If by rehabbing you meant hunting demons like the Winchesters did every off season, then yes, rehab went freaking  _great_. He bared his teeth in Gordon’s direction. “It’s like I’m back from the dead.”  
  
The team started filtering in slowly after that. Dean had known most of them before the draft. There was Bobby, the veteran who’d been playing as long as Dean could remember, center Victor Hendriksen from Washington who was the one real get of the expansion draft, Andy and Chuck the two scrawniest forwards he’d ever seen and a trio of kids straight out of the AHL who weren’t even be drinking age yet.  
  
But they’d made the team. They were all on the roster for opening night, which means this is his new family for the next six months. He starts pulling on his pads, flexing his left knee absently. A few lockers over, Adam and Lucas were talking animatedly about their first NHL game. The were handling it better than Dean had. His first game in the NHL had been six years ago with the Boston Bruins and he’d spent most of the pregame puking up his nerves in the bathroom. Sam had come straight out of college hockey at Stanford and out onto the ice with the LA Kings. They’d always spent the off season back in Lawrence with their dad on his hunts. They probably would have been hunting full time if it wasn’t for the pesky need of cash flow.   
  
Then again, Dean would have been playing hockey even if it wasn’t for the cash needs. He couldn’t imagine life without it. Sam always used to tease him that his one relaxation from the violence of hunting was one of the more violent sports around.  
  
“Full moon tonight,” Sam remarked absently to him.   
  
“Dude, priorities. Season opener tonight.” He pulled on the white away sweater, the navy-blue A for assistant captain smiling up at him from his left shoulder. “Opening night for the entire franchise.” He lowered his voice. “We deal with the werewolf post-game.”  
  
Ellen Harvelle came in a few minutes after they finished dressing, the first and only female coach in the NHL. She’d grown up around the ice though. Her husband Bill had been one of the unsung starts of the league and she knew the game backwards and forward. The team respected her and more then a few of them actively feared her. “Gentlemen,” she said. “You’ve had your preseason. Tonight is no different. I want the Singer line and the Winchesters out to start. Play hockey. Same game different place. You’ve all been here before.”  
  
Adam and Lucas both looked a little green but the rest of the guys were nodding. Hendriksen, center of the consensus first line didn’t even blink at them giving Bobby’s line the start for the game. Bobby was well past his prime, at a whopping 45 years, he was by a decade the oldest man in the locker room. But he’d been playing since Dean was in diapers and was the craftiest forward in the league.   
  
Dean laced up his skates and grabbed his helmet. He caught sight of Ash in the corner, flipping his mullet back behind his neck. “Gentlemen, rock and roll.”  
  


***

  
  
The Lawrence Rage, in the time honored tradition of new expansion teams were getting their faces kicked in. Three-one after two. The one goal was Victor Hendriksen on a second period power play.   
  
Dean cleared out his nostrils and glanced up at the clock. Eight minutes to play. He leveled his gaze back onto the ice only to see Gordon Walker take a cheep shot at LeCavalier. “Damn it, Gordo,” Ellen muttered even before the referee came up with the penalty. “Winchester, Winchester, Campbell and Braeden. Keep this one sown up.”  
  
The penalty kill probably didn’t matter, but it felt important somehow like a stand to salvage the game. Rubeson back in the net tapped each post in turn and exhaled deeply.   
  
It was the kind of penalty kill that gave you hope for the season. The kind with Ben Braeden sprawling down on the ice to block a shot and Sam icing it a few times while Jake poured on the pressure to tie it up in the Lightning defensive zone. The kind of power play with Sam intercepting a pass for a shorthanded chance while Dean threw every hit he could to keep the Lightning on the glass and away from the goal.  
  
By the time Gordon’s two minutes were up, the Rage had some life back in them and the Winchesters give the blue line to Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler as the forth line of Carey, Braeden and Miller poured on the pressure.  
  
Ash netted a cheap goal late on a lucky deflection in a scrum in front of the net with about a minute to go and Ellen calls for Rubeson to come to the bet. The Hendriksen’s line was out with the Winchesters manning the point position as Andy Gallagher comes rushing on to give the Rage a six on five with the Rubeson’s net yawning empty. Gallagher was lightning fast with the puck and works magic in the face-off circle but when it came right down to it, Gallagher was also the smallest player in the league. It should be Gordon up there by all rights but Gordon was in the doghouse for the penalty a few minutes before and hadn’t seen the ice since.  
  
Dean caught a pass back from Reidy and unloaded a slap shot on goal that hit the net minder square in the chest. The rebound ricochets off behind the net where Gallagher beats his man to it only to get rocked back into the boards as the puck squirts out to the defenseman who wastes no time in lobbing a clear up past the blue lines and into the empty Rage net.  
  
They left the ice a few seconds later tired but relieved because the first game’s the hardest with any new group but they were going to be fine.  
  


***

  
  
The locker room was more alive after the game, free of the pregame nerves and after the coach left the chatter started. “I can’t believe we not only have the two smallest guys in the league,” groused Joe Jobeson who, after a series of increasingly ridiculous pranks in training camp had been dubbed, ‘the Trickster,’ “but we have them playing on the same line.”  
  
“Hey, Gretsky was pretty much the smallest guy in the league,” Andy protested.  
  
“Andy,” Sam said, standing up for emphasis. “Please say you did not just compare yourself to Wayne Gretsky.”  
  
Andy looked up at him, eyes widening. “No, I uh, compared Chuck to Gretsky?”  
  
Sam shook his head. “I’m going to tell Jake to let them hit you next game.”  
  
Dean laughed up until Bobby Singer smacked him on the back of the head and said, “In case you idjits didn’t remember we lost tonight. I’m in no mood to be celebrating.”  
  


***

  
  
It was about an hour and a half after the game when the Winchesters finally got away from the arena after the game. Curfew was two AM and they had the bus down to Miami for the game with the Panthers. Then another travel day and a Saturday matinee in Carolina before finally making their way to Lawrence for their home opener against the Atlanta Thrashers.  
  
“You know,” Dean commented as he drew his gun out of his waistband. “I’m thinking about getting my skates made with a silver blade. Knowing our luck, some wolf is going to hulk out on us when we’re on the penalty kill.”  
  
“Don’t even joke about that,” Sam snapped. “Hockey’s not hunting.”  
  
Dean shrugged. “About the same amount of blood in the end.”  
  


***

  
  
Sam only just managed to pump two silver rounds into it before it mauled Dean. He ended up with blood splattering the front of his shirt.   
  
“Son of a bitch,” he hissed. “This was new.”  
  
“Could have been worse,” Sam said. “Could have been your practice sweats.”  
  
“Oh, I learned my lesson in Boston. Never ever doing that again.” He hesitated. “We burying the corpse or we just leaving it here?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “We’ve already blow curfew.”  
  
“Grave digging it is,” Dean said. He grabbed the werewolf’s arms as Sam took hold of the legs. “I missed the brotherly bonding time. This just wasn’t the same without you.”  
  
“Oh, screw you Dean,” Sam muttered. “There was a reason I stuck to ghosts in LA. One of these days someone’s going to find us coming out of a graveyard and put a name to a face.”  
  
Dean shook his head, and grinned over at his brother. “Don’t you just love hockey season?”


	2. Home Opener

The home opener at the Apple Arena in Lawrence Kansas brought a certain amount of fanfare. “First home game of the season,” Chuck remarked casually as they got off the bus at the arena. “Probably the only time we’re going to see a sell out all year.”  
  
“Hey we’ve got Washington and Pittsburgh at home a few times,” Braeden offered, hauling his bag out. “We might have a crowd then.”  
  
“Oh God,” Andy moaned, “we’re going to be  _that_ team. The team that has more away fans at every home game then homers. I was in Atlanta for four years. I’ve already been on that team.”  
  
“Simple solution,” Bobby grunted, clapping a hand on his shoulders. “Let’s start winning some damn games.”  
  
“Amen,” Dean muttered.   
  
It had been a rough road trip to start the season. Three losses in three games. Most of the problem was in defense. Between Hendriksen, Tricks and Gordon, they were going to score. However outside the Winchesters, the defense was severely lacking. Lucas Barr and Adam Milligan would be all right with experience but they were both nineteen and prone to making rookie mistakes. Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler had the experience but took stupid penalty after stupid penalty. At goal, Rubesen had shown flashes of brilliance but was inconsistent and prone to letting in the occasional soft goal.  
  
But they were headed for a home stand. In Dean’s experience a home crowd could solve a lot of problems.   
  
He just wished the home team was based anywhere but Lawrence.  
  
The press stopped him and Sam separately while Andy and Chuck slipped by without problem. Dean plastered on his customary interview face.  
  
“I’m here with Dean Winchester of the Lawrence Rage as the team prepares for their first ever home opener. Now Dean, I understand you’re a local boy.”  
  
The microphone tilted toward him and a pit dropped into his stomach because they were going to go there. It had never been a point of interest in Boston. Not beyond the occasional thirty second bit about the Winchester brothers growing up without a mother but now they were  _here_. Back in Lawrence and it was going to come up again and again and again.  
  
“That’s right,” he said. “Lawrence, Kansas born and breed.”  
  
“How long has it been?”  
  
“We moved away when I was six,” Dean said. “Sammy was two. Mom died here and dad said we needed a change.” He sighed and remembered those two years after mom had died. Remembered his first pair of skates and staying at the ice rink for hours under the supervision of his aunt and uncle, the cool atmosphere of the ice so much better then the roaring heat of the fire. He blinked himself out of the memory to look the reporter in the eyes and flashed her his cockiest grin. “Got a new team. Playing with Sammy again. Feels like coming home.”  
  
The reporter looked satisfied with the answer, thanking him for his time before returning to her cameraman to do the wrap. He dropped his smile as soon as he entered the arena because he would have rather been picked up by the west coast expansion team then this one. Because he wished he was anywhere but back in Lawrence.  
  
He went to the trainer’s office where Jess smiled at him and ushered him up on the table before saying, “You gave the exact same interview as your brother, you know. Almost word for word. It’s creepy. Sometimes I swear you’re the same person.”  
  
“Does this mean I get to have sex with you too? Because I know Sam’s all about this monogamy thing but it isn’t technically...”  
  
Jess punched him hard in the shoulder. “You do that again and I’ll call someone on the team next time you two show up beat to hell. I’m pretty sure it’s a contract violation.”  
  
Dean grinned over at her. She was Sam’s girl and had been since his playing days at Stanford. They’d brought her into the loop during the lock-out year when a demon tried to burn her on the ceiling. She bore the faint ghost of the scars on the left side of her face but it didn’t really detract from her good looks.  
  
“How’s the knee holding up?”  
  
“I’m going to go with better then my last stab wound.”  
  
“Of course,” Jess mumbled as she got to work on stretching out his knee. “Any other extra curricular injuries I should be aware of?”  
  
“Not this time.”  
  
“Fantastic. We’ll hold of the painkillers for post game then.”  
  
“Thanks Jess.” He gave her a cheery wink. “You ever decide to upgrade Winchesters, give me a call.”  
  
Jess rolled her eyes and shooed him out of the room. “Good luck out there tonight, Dean. Break a leg.”  
  
“Why the hell would I want to do that?”  
  
“Then break someone else’s leg,” Jess teased. “Just get out of here.”  
  


***

  
  
There was something special about a home opener. The Apple Arena was packed toe to toe and Dean listened to the national anthem grinning up at the sea of shirts in the stands. He could make out more then a few Thrashers fans in the crowd as well as a bunch of red Capitals jerseys with Hendriksen’s number on the sleeve, but not much of the navy blue and gold of the Rage’s home sweaters.  
  
But that would come later. Probably not for years but if Dean closed his eyes, he could see it, the whole place nothing but a blue sea. Sold out home games like he was used to in Boston.   
  
Tonight was a sell-out but it was only a sell-out because it was new. If he had to guess, he would say about a third of the Lawrence natives in attendance had never seen a hockey game in their lives.  
  
“Let’s give them a good show,” Tricks said, grinning as the first line took an ice.  
  
“Let’s just win the damn game,” Bobby grumbled.  
  


***

  
  
Times like this, Dean really loved his job.  
  
Scratch that, Dean always loved his job, but tonight, tonight was freaking special.  
  
He was  _unstoppable_. He felt like he was a kid again, straight out of the AHL with all the energy in the world and something to prove. He hadn’t felt this good since the lock-out.   
  
Of course, when Dean was having a good game he didn’t pull an Ovechkin and put in four goals by himself. He had a pair of assists. One to Ben Braeden on a shorthanded goal in the first period and a second on a slapshot at the point position that Tricks deflected down and past the goalie. But he was a defenseman through and through. His brother was the more offensive minded of the pairing. Dean stayed at home and tracked the other team’s best player and Kovalchuck had barely touched the puck without Dean being there tonight.   
  
He was one of the best defenders in the game when he had nights like this. His knee felt like new and he was hitting harder then he had in years.  
  
Ellen called a time out with only a minute to go in the third and final period. They were up two goals to one with an impending face-off in Thrasher territory. “I want Singer taking the face-off with Hendriksen, Braeden and the Winchesters out there. Win it clean and tie it up against the boards if you can. The puck does not leave the zone, you hear me? They don’t get a chance to pull their goalie.”  
  
Bobby nodded once, cool as ever because he’d been there before. Ben looked ready to vomit. Hendriksen adjusted his helmet and tapped his stick once on the ice. Sam nodded once in Dean’s direction.  
  
“Let’s pick up the win, gentlemen,” Ellen finished.  
  
They skated back out onto the ice to the roars of the home crowd, Bobby making a point to be at Ben’s shoulder muttering a few quiet words of advice before taking his place in the face-off circle. Dean smiled up at the crowd and watched as the ref dropped the puck for the face off.   
  
Bobby won the draw clean, sending the puck back to Hendriksen’s stick. Hendricksen shuffled it over to Braeden who rolled it along the boards behind the net where Sam managed to tie it up, leaving the puck at his skates as two Thrashers dig to get it.   
  
When the puck finally squirted loose, Ben picked it back up and sent it to Dean at the point position. Dean held the puck for about a second before the Thrasher’s forward came charging toward him. He smiled for just the barest fraction of a second as he slid an easy pass over to Bobby before lowering his shoulder and leveling the guy charging at him to the cheers of the crowd.   
  
The final seconds ticked off with the puck, as Ellen ordered, still in the Thrasher’s zone. And there was a roar building in the crowd that Dean could barely hear over his own shout of excitement and a second later Ben crashed into him and then Sam with Hendriksen and Bobby hanging back with more reserved smiles on their face. Carl Rubesen was skating up from their goal and Dean slung an arm over his shoulder and said, “Hell of a game, Ruby.”  
  
Rubesen smiled back at him and Dean turned to the crowd and raised his stick in salute because yeah, maybe they were in for a rough season and maybe he feels more then a little like Lawrence is the closest thing to hell on Earth for a Winchester but give him a stick, a crowd and a win and Dean was a very happy man.  
  


***

  
  
Ellen didn’t have much for them post game, just a grin and, “Congratulations boys. Play like that every night and we’ll be in good shape.” She surveyed the mostly young crowd and added. “Practice tomorrow is cancelled. Enjoy your celebration because we’re going hard on Monday and then we have the Avalanche here Tuesday.”  
  
She left the room to a moment of complete silence that Chuck finally broke with a hesitant, “Pizza and beer at my house?”  
  


***

  
  
It was without a doubt the biggest party in Lawrence.   
  
But that was only because it was Lawrence. Chuck had a couple of cases and they ordered a dozen pizzas and spent the night playing drinking games as the movie Slapshot played in the background. Gordon and Reidy ducked out early due to the appalling lack of girls while Sam bailed after pizza to have some quality time with Jess. But the rest of them were all there, swapping stories and talking about the game.  
  
Dean found himself sitting next to Ben Braeden who was nursing a beer. “You know you were my favorite player back in the day.”  
  
Ben was just a little drunk, eyes slightly unfocused, words slightly slurred. He was eighteen years old and he’d just gotten his first NHL win under his belt. Dean shook his head. “I find that hard to believe.”  
  
People didn’t buy Dean Winchester jerseys. He wasn’t a star. He’d spent three seasons in the AHL and two more bouncing back and forth before finally earning his spot on the Bruins roster. He was the guy who spent the game plastered to the other team’s star which meant he got burned more then he cared to admit.   
  
“It was my mom,” Ben muttered. “We used to go to games all the time and when I was in the peewee leagues, she would tell me, if you can’t be Ray Borque, put your head down, work harder then the next guy and be Dean Winchester.”  
  
Dean rubbed at his forehead. “Thanks... I guess.”  
  
“I can’t believe they had me on the ice at the end of the game,” Ben mumbled, looking slightly green. Dean backed away unconsciously as he added, “I think I’m going to puke.”  
  
Dean stood up quickly, pointing him down the hall to Chuck’s bathroom and going to grab another slice of pizza. Jobesen was on the other side of the room with a white Mac book in his hands reading loudly from something that to Dean’s ears sounded like a Harlequin romance novel only with demons.  
  
Ed and Harry were doubled over with laughter and even Hendriksen had a faint smile on his face and. Dean started moving toward that end of the room when Chuck, with wide eyes screamed. “Tricks! Give that back.”  
  
“Seriously?” Jobesen said, holding the laptop up in the air. “Chuck, seriously? You’re a writer? This is something you tell the world.”  
  
“Sure, but I don’t tell you guys!”  
  
“Lighten up, Chuck.”   
  
Chuck balled up his fists and screamed. “Everyone get the FUCK out of my house!”  
  


***

  
  
The next morning at breakfast in the house Dean shared with his brother, Sam asked, “So how did team bonding end up last night after I left?”  
  
Dean blearily pours himself a cup of coffee. “Ben got plastered and almost puked on me, Tricks stole Chucks computer and started reading his secret novel, Bobby called us all idiots and Chuck tossed us out.”  
  
“Ouch, just as well we don’t have practice today,” Sam sat down across from him. “You want to go kill something?”  
  
Dean took a swig of his coffee. “God, yes.”   
  
“Gremlins or a ghost?”  
  
“Gremlins.”  
  
Sam grinned. “Gremlins it is.”


	3. The Devil’s Down in Philly

It was during the first game of the Rage-Flyers series that Dean realized that the world was completely and utterly fucked.   
  
The game itself was brutal. Games against Philly were always hard. Dean remembered that much from his time in Boston. The Flyers played hard and hit even harder. There had been a fight in almost every game Dean had ever played against them. But even early in the first period, Dean could tell that this was something different. Something bigger. Gordon had dropped the gloves just three minutes into the game and the usually competent fighter had been dropped easy amidst the roars from the home Philly crowd.  
  
“Bunch of freaking vultures,” Dean commented to Sam from his perch on the bench. “I hate this town.”  
  
“Are there any away cities you don’t hate?”  
  
“I don’t hate Boston,” Dean said.   
  
“You know that doesn’t count.”  
  
“Everyone hates playing in Philly,” Chuck said from somewhere on his left. “Did you hear about the football game where they threw rocks at Santa Claus.”  
  
“There’s a battle cry for you,” Adam muttered. “Let’s win this one for Santa.”  
  
Dean grinned and then all of a sudden, there was a big mass of white sweater sailing over the raining of the Rage’s bench and Ben Braeden pushed himself to his skates looking woozy and bloody as the referee came up with a penalty.  
  
“You all right, kid?” Dean asked. Braeden’s helmet as cock-eyed and he had an oddly distant look in his eyes. “What city are we in?”  
  
“Somewhere orange,” Ben muttered.   
  
“Braeden,” Ellen barked from the end of the bench. “You concussed, kid?”  
  
Ben struggled to right himself, wobbling a little on his skates even as he was moving to sit down. He gave Ellen a shake thumbs up and then put his head between his legs, like he was trying not to puke. “I want the first power play unit on the ice,” Ellen barked to the rest of the team as she signaled Jess over to take a look at Ben.  
  
“I don’t remember these guys hitting like this,” Ash said as he slid back into the bench and watched the power play until take the ice. “I mean we only played them twice a year but I remember bruises like this.”  
  
Jess was slowly performing the routine diagnostic tests for concussions on Ben. There was a trickle of blood running down his forehead. “Doesn’t look like a concussion to me, Ben,” she said with a grin. “But the cut needs stitches. Come on. We’ll have you back before the next period.”  
  
“Chicks dig the scars,” Dean said absently as he watch Sam slid a pass over to Bobby and get rocked by the Philly defenseman. The check knocked him clear off his skates. And Sam was a big guy. Dean knew from experience that knocking him down with a check was damn near impossible to do.  
  
His brother lumbered back off to his feet, raising his stick to signal he needed a swap. “Shit,” Ellen cursed and tapped Adam on the back as Sam stumbled into the bench area. “Winchester, you all right?”  
  
“I feel like I got run over by a train,” Sam moaned. “Just give me a minute. Nothing’s broken.”  
  
Andy looked pale. He’d been taken off his usual second run power play unit for the game because of the problems with the size match-up. It was only the first period but his line had already proved to be the one getting the least playing time. Andy was lightning fast and could handle the puck better then anyone he’d ever seen but he and Chuck were two of the smallest players in the league and the way Philly was playing it was pretty well guaranteed that no one was getting out of here without some battle wounds.  
  
The crowd erupted into moans as Victor Hendriksen slid the puck past the stunned goaltender on a one-two pass from Bobby. There was a small but empathic situation around the goal, the tangle of arms and back pats. Ellen sent out Braeden’s usual line substituting Jake from the Gallagher line for the missing winger along with Dean and Lucas at the defense. He cast a look at Sam who was still trying to catch his breath before turning to Lucas. “Kid, I feel like something weird is going on here.”  
  
“Yeah us with a first period lead. Weird, right?”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“Shut up and play, you idjits,” Bobby grumbled.   
  
Dean flashed him a smile as Bobby shook his head in annoyance. “Real leadership,” Dean joked, “That’s why they gave you the captain’s C, Singer.” They slid back over the boards and onto the ice as the Rage went up for wholesale line cages but it was a bad. Dean saw the puck sailing past the blue line and onto the stick of Danny Briere.  
  
“Shit,” he mumbled and put his head down, digging to pick up ground as Briere made a beeline to Rubesen and the goal. He sprawled out on the ice face first, extending his stick out toward the puck. He hit Briere’s skates first knocking the puck afterward and skidded into Rubesen, almost taking down the big goalie before stopping completely. From his vantage point on the ice, he could see the referee with his hand outstretched signaling the hooking call. The crowd roared its disapproval, asking for a penalty shot. “Good play,” Rubesen mumbled to him as he pushed his way back up to his feet. The referee escorted him over to the penalty box where the Flyers fan on the other side of the glass pounded incessantly behind him. Dean sat down, face front as he watched the penalty killers took the ice.  
  
But it wasn’t the kind of line you wanted to see. Sam was still reeling from the last hit and Ben Braeden had left the ice to get stitched up. He glanced at the game clock. Only fifty-four seconds until intermission. If they could kill fifty-four seconds of the power play, the might be able to start the second with their real penalty killers out front.  
  
Ellen had Hendriksen and Ash alongside Lucas and Ed Zeddmore on the ice and Dean knew putting Zeddmore on kill was just about the last thing Ellen wanted to do, but being the only thing she could do. Adam had been coming off a double shift, Sam was still shaky from the hit and Dean was the one serving the penalty.   
  
It was a crappy view from the box, the glass distorting the game but he can see enough to tell where it was going to go bad. The Flyers won the face of and the puck just stayed in the zone, sliding easily from stick to stick despite the defense’s efforts to get it out.   
  
Hendriksen hit the ice to stop a slap shot with his side as Zeddmore darted after the puck only to get rocked by a hit that made Dean wince even off the ice. There was a scrum in front of the net, a series of deflections and then the red light lit up and the crowd was on its feet. Dean glanced up at the clock. Two seconds left in the period. He skated over to the bench only to have Ellen signal for him to stay on the ice. Andy won the face off clean, and Dean wound up and sent a hard slap shot into the zone that missed the goal by a mile. But the buzzer rang out loud and clear signaling the period’s end and the Rage made their way off the ice.  
  


***

  
  
The second period wasn’t any better. They got both Ben Braeden and Sam back onto the ice but the Flyers just kept hitting at every turn. Every time Dean finished a shift, his knee was singing its protests and his body just ached.  
  
But the crazy thing about it was they were ahead. The third line, the one with both Andy and Chuck on the ice together, the line with the two smallest guys in the league, was picking Philly apart. Dean knew that Andy was a magician with the puck, he seen some stick handling showcased in practice and been judge on the competitions between him and Tricks as they saw who could juggle the puck on their stick the longest but he hadn’t seen it in a game before know.   
  
Andy had the Flyers lunging clumsily at him trying to get the puck off his stick as he danced through him, his tiny stature actually an advantage in a game that had kept Jess busy in the locker room stitching up cuts all night long. He scored two goals in the second, the Gallagher line suddenly on the ice every other shift when it had barely played at all in the first period. Looking at the row of faces on the bench, though, Dean would have thought they were on the other end of an ass whooping. Ben Braeden had a thing row of eight black stitches just above the eye and Hendriksen was sitting just a little too upright and Sam missing half of his shifts, Ellen still fearing a concussion even though his brother insisted he was fine. They look like a team that’s been through a war. A team that had lost the freaking war even though they were up three to one. There was something wrong in this arena, an edge of violence to this game that wasn’t normally present even in the usual hard-hitting games with family.  
  
He figured it own pinned to the board with the puck between his skates and an orange jersey slamming him repeatedly against the glass. What is strong and faster then a hockey player but not half as skilled?  
  
“Christo,” he said, choking out the word even as his face was pressed against the cool glass. The were was hissing sound and Dean turned just in time to see black eyes against light skin and he felt the connections tumbling into place.  
  
Demons. All of them.  
  
Their dad always had one rule. The mantra that had been burned into their heads since their dad swept them into his arms after the fire. Hockey is not hunting.  
  
The rule broke with Dean’s punch. His reaction instant, violent and so completely ingrained to his being that he couldn’t have stopped himself if he wanted to. He was as much a hunter as he was a hockey player and he couldn’t separate the two of them right now. The demon grinned at him from behind the snarling face of some first year call up he didn’t know.   
  
“Dean Winchester,” the demon hissed at him.   
  
“You messed up,” Dean snapped back. “You’re in the NHL, people are going to notice.”  
  
The demon didn’t say anything else. He had one hand on Dean’s shoulders holding his right hook at bay as Dean attempted to pummel him with his left, wishing he’d memorized the damn exorcism.  
  
The fight was quick and dirty and it ended with the two of them toppled over on the ice, Dean still in hunter mode, trying to kill the guy when the linesmen drag him off of them and back into the penalty box for the second time of the game. He can see Ellen bitching at the refs from the bench, can see the demon wearing the kid’s face looking at him from the other penalty box and heard the roars of the crowd as the penalty times went up. Dean Winchester, five minutes for fighting. Eric McGee, two for roughing.   
  
Dean sat there listening to the crow swell all around him, watching the demon in the penalty box, all the demons down in Philly and realized that somehow, when he wasn’t paying attention, his world had gotten completely and utterly fucked.  
  


***

  
  
They won the game. They won it by the skin of their teeth and the virtue of Carl Rubesen’s glove but they won. Dean didn’t set foot on the ice again after the penalty and judging by the smoke spurting out of her ears.  
  
She let the team head into the locker room, cornering him on the outside. “What the hell did he say to you?” she snapped.  
  
Dean blinked. “What?”  
  
“What did he say to you? I’ve been watching the league since before you were born and I know what kind of player can be goaded into a fight and Winchester unless I sorely misjudged you, you ain’t one of them. Let me hear it.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“I want to know what would make an otherwise smart, levelheaded defensemen turn and take a swing at someone.” Ellen folded her arms over her chest.   
  
He hated lying. Even though it was a skill that had been ingrained in him since the fire, it was not something Dean particularly liked. “I’d rather not repeat it,” Dean said, purposely avoiding her eyes.  
  
“Damn it, Winchester, I ain’t your mother. Language is just about the last thing that’s going to offend me.”  
  
Dean set his jaw, stared straight ahead and didn’t say a word. Ellen narrowed her eyes. “Fine don’t tell me. But if it happens again, I will bust your ass back to the AHL so fast your head will spin. You damn near cost us the game.”  
  
She stepped back and let him into the locker room. Most of the team was still huddled around Andy and Rubesen, still chattering happily about the win. Sam was sitting next to his locker next to Ben Braeden both of them looking tired and beaten up. There was a bruise blossoming on Sam’s cheek. Remnant of the hit from earlier.   
  
“So not looking forward to playing those guys again,” Ben muttered, prodding gently at the row of stitches on his temple.   
  
“I feel like they weren’t this bad last season,” Sam said. “We only played them twice last year but today—“  
  
“Today they were playing like they were  _possessed_ ,” Dean said.  
  
“Possessed?” Sam repeated and then looked over to meet his brother’s eyes. “Oh. Shit.”


	4. Chapter 4

They couldn’t talk until the were in the hotel room and then Sam tossed down his duffle, rounded on his brother and said, “Possessed? They were possessed. That’s why you took a swing at him?”  
  
“Why the hell else would I take a swing at him?” Dean snapped. “I don’t fight. I haven’t since I broke that kid’s arm in the peewee league. It was one of dad’s rules. I could keep playing as long as I didn’t break out the secret hunter kong-fu on the unsuspecting thugs.”  
  
Sam flipped on the television as if he thought he was going to find a story about Dean Winchester’s fight admits the highlights from basketball season but it wasn’t there and probably wouldn’t be there except for a five second blurb on Sportscenter tomorrow morning. “What are we going to do about this?” Sam asked finally. “We’re leaving for the Canadian circuit tomorrow. We don’t have time for a mass exorcism.”  
  
“Not to mention, they’re going to watch me like a hawk next time I’m in Philly.”  
  
“Yeah, you kind of screwed the pooch on this one, Dean.”  
  
“You’re not doing an exorcism alone,” Dean ordered.   
  
“I’m not an idiot, I’m going to go to Jess’s room and make sure she salts her doors. Then I’m probably going to stay there. See you in the morning, right?”  
  
“I think I’m going to go celebrate with the team,” Dean replied. “We did just get a win. Plus with all the blood shed, we can all get drunk cheep tonight.”  
  
“Dude, we have money.”  
  
“Sorry, still get the flashbacks to the old days sometime.”  
  
They’d spent half of their youth running flat broke. The deal had always been that if they wanted to play the peewee hockey season, they had to scrap together the money for it on their own. Dean had made it happen every year, skipping meals when he could bear it. Having enough money to eat and drink what he wanted was still a bit of a luxury.  
  
“Don’t get in any bar fights,” Sam cautioned him.  
  
Dean spread his arms wide as if to ask  _Who? Me?_ There was a bruise blossoming over his right eye, a souvenir from the fight he’d started with a demon on ice skates. His right knee still ached and in his pocket he kept a thin scrap of paper, copied from his dad’s journal with the exorcism jotted hastily down.  
  


***

  
  
There were no bar fights that night. No fights of any kind really. Dean wound up at a dinner table with Adam and Ben as the Trickster attempted to get them all to participate in Karaoke.   
  
“Why’d you fight ‘em?” Ben asked after his third beer of the night had lessened his constant nervousness from being in the presence of people he’d grown up watching on television. He was still under aged and most people knew it but he was also a professional athlete so no one was willing to call him on it. “I knew him in the minors. He’s a nice guy.”  
  
“He’s a demon,” Dean said, sipping at his whiskey, not bothering to be subtle. He’d kept an eye on the door all night watching for any of the Flyers to come in. He didn’t know what bars they normally frequented but this one had seemed pretty athlete friendly.  
  
“Yeah,” Adam snorted. “That’s a good one.”  
  
Carl Rubesen was sitting alone at the end of the bar, glass of scotch in his hand. Dean’s eyes narrowed. To his knowledge Carl tended to hang out with the skinny slip of a forward called Scott Carey and Calvin Reidy who was the quietest of the players on the Hendriksen line. Dean excused himself from his table for a moment and made his way over to the bar, sitting down next to him. “Hell of a game tonight, Rube,” he said.  
  
“Thanks,” Rubesen replied quiet and a slightly higher pitch then Dean was used to hearing but Dean wasn’t really friends with Rubesen. He’d always kind of felt like Rubesen hated all of the Rage’s defense for allowing an average of thirty shots a game.  
  
“Buy you another?” Dean asked.  
  
Rubesen finished his current glass and looked over. “No, I’m headed out. See you tomorrow, Winchester.”  
  
He paid for the drinks and walked out of the bar and Dean felt like a jackass because he was the reason Rubesen had to be brilliant the night before. He’d taken a stupid penalty even though he’d made it out of necessity. If he didn’t watch it, this was the kind of stuff that could get him booted back down to the AHL.  
  
He realized now why his dad had made it rule number one. Hockey is not hunting. The two should not mix.  
  
Because now they had started bleeding into one another, Dean didn’t know what he was supposed to do.  
  


***

  
  
He called Marc Staal that night. He would have called Jordan or Eric instead but the Rangers were coming in to play Philly in a week while Pittsburgh was on a west coast swing and Carolina was in Arizona. He answered on the third ring sounding tired and annoyed. “Dean Winchester?” he said. “Why are you calling me at two in the morning?”  
  
Dean hesitated, looking over to Sam’s empty bed. “You remember that time me and my brother ran into you guys summer before last.”  
  
They’d been locked in a house under the assault of a half dozen or so black dogs. Dean and Sam had rolled in expecting to find a couple of helpless kids huddled up in the corner. What they found was a set of four brothers making a flame thrower out of a can of spray paint. Marc had looked over to Dean only to say,  _Back off. We’ve got this._  
  
To his knowledge the Staal brothers were the only other players in the NHL with any knowledge of the supernatural. It could have been worse though. The nice thing about the Staal brothers was that, between the four of them, they could pretty much cover the entire east coast.   
  
“Yeah,” Marc said. “Yeah, I remember.”  
  
“I think pretty much everyone on the Flyers is possessed.”  
  
“You serious? That why you clocked the guy?”  
  
Dean winced and rubbed his forehead. “Yeah. Wanted to give you the heads up.”  
  
“I don’t think I’m going to be performing an exorcism on the ice.”  
  
“Just keep an eye out all right?”  
  
“Yeah, Dean, sure. Thanks for the head up.” He yawned. “You going to Toronto, yeah? Jordan says they’ve got a curse on them. They haven’t won a home game all season.”  
  
“Me and Sam will check it out. Good luck to you guys.”  
  
“Right up until we’re playing you right.”  
  
“You’ve got it,” Dean laughed. “Get some sleep.”  
  
The dial tone greeted him and he hung up, laying back against the bed, letting himself feel the dull ache of his bones.   
  


***

  
  
They were the two worst teams in the conference. Fifteen games in and the Rage had two wins and the Maple Leafs three. Sam and Jess were in the hotel room with him, a few books scattered on the hotel desk.  
  
“They haven’t won a home game this season,” Jess said. “In fact, they haven’t won a home game since last March.”   
  
“There’s our pattern,” Sam said. “Cross reference it. Find out if anything was gifted to the team or any of the players.”  
  
“Hold on a second,” Dean said, raising a hand. “We’re saying that Toronto hasn’t won a home game since last season?”  
  
“March 2nd,” Jess confirmed.  
  
“And all of their wins this season have come on the road?”  
  
“The Habs, Ottowa and Chicago.”  
  
Dean snapped his book closed. “Let’s think about this. We’re playing them tomorrow. Do we really want to break this curse now?”  
  
“What the hell are you saying, Dean? We just leave them like this?”  
  
“No one’s getting hurt! And I’m not suggesting we leave them like that. Just you know wait. And not act on it until you know after our game tomorrow.”  
  
“Dean—“  
  
“I really don’t like being the worst team in the league, Sammy!” Dean snapped. “It’s not about this curse it’s about us really needing another win. We get this one and we’ve got two in a row. That’s something to building on. You know something that will ramp us up into mediocrity.”  
  
“Mediocrity?”  
  
“Dude, I hate losing all the time.”  
  
Jess tossed her hair over her shoulder. “How long you suspended, Dean?”  
  
“Two games,” Dean admitted. “NHL called it unprovoked. If the guy hadn’t swung back it would have been five. I would be really, really nice if we could win one of them.”  
  
Sam snorted. “You’ve got to get that temper under control.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered.  
  


***

  
  
They won the game with Dean watching from the bench in his street clothes. The Rage got every bounce, funny deflections and three different too many men on the ice penalties. Dean’s suspension had left them short a defensemen so the lines were shifted leaving Ben Braeden playing defense in his place and the Rage playing short a forward. But it didn’t seem to matter in the end. The final score was four to one, the one on a rather soft screen shot that to Dean’s eyes looked like it could have been stopped.   
  
Ellen gave them a short post game speech before dismissing them for the evening. A few people had family in the area and Dean dodged a few offers of company so that he and Sam could make their way back to the Air Canada Centre. Jess greeted them at the door. “What the hell took you so long?” she said. Her hair was pulled up in a tight blonde ponytail. “I’ve been dodging the night security for the last two hours.”  
  
“You’ve got us a way into the home locker room, right?”  
  
“You know who you’re talking to right?”  
  
“You’re the best,” Sam said. “I mean that.” He leaned in and press a quick kiss to her lips as Dean pretended to gag.   
  
Jess jangled a set of keys in front of them and lead them over to the locker room before flipping on the lights. Despite himself Dean found himself smiling. “What are we looking for?” Jess asked.   
  
“Cursed object,” Dean said, pulling out his EMF. “Should set it off. We find it and we burn it and we let Toronto lose games on their own.”  
  
“You’re in a good mood.”  
  
“I’m not currently on the worst team in hockey. Turns your day around.”  
  
Jess was methodically going through the player lockers as Sam scanned the outskirts of the room. Dean moved side to side waiting for a hit from the EMF.   
  
“Bingo,” Jess sang out. “This is weird right?”  
  
A brown hex bag sailed through the room Dean caught it with his off hand, wrinkling his nose. “Freaking witches,” he muttered and checked the contents. Piece of a jersey, some sort of bone. “Looks like amateur work,” he said. “I think this is a bird bone.”  
  
“They sacrificed a bird?” Sam asked his face scrunched up in apparently genuine distress.   
  
“Better a bird then a person,” Jess said, clapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Can we get out of here before I get caught and lose my job?”  
  
“Up in smoke.” Dean pulled a lighter up out of his pocket and the hex bag crumpled in a blue flame.   
  
“We need to find a witch?” Sam asked.  
  
Dean shook his head. “Amateur work. I don’t think we need to bother.”  
  


***

  
  
Two days later, they were in Ottawa and Dean was watching from the bench as the Senators whooped up on the Rage. Ellen pulled Rubesen when the Rage was down 5-1 half way through the second. Ronald Reznick lumbered out. He decent goaltender in a pinch, but he relied more on size then actual skill. He filled up the net but tired easily. Rubesen need to get his shit together.   
  
“Tough one tonight,” Dean commented. “There’s always another one though, right.”  
  
“Bite me,” Rubesen snapped, turning his gaze back onto the ice.  
  
Ellen glanced at the two of them briefly, eyes narrowed before returning her gaze through the ice.   
  
The game ended with a score of 7-1.  
  


***

  
  
After the game Ellen cornered Dean coming out of the locker room. “You’re rooming with Rubesen in Montreal,” she ordered. “I don’t know what issues you and Rubesen have but you damn well better fix it. Beat on each other for a night, I don’t care but fix it. I don’t take this kind of shit on my team.”  
  
Sam was waiting for him outside. “What did she want?” he asked.   
  
Dean wrinkled his nose. “Does Rube have a problem with me?”  
  
“Only your face.”  
  
“I’m being serious.”  
  
“Dean, we’re almost twenty games into the season and we’ve got three wins. Everyone has a problem with everyone right now. I’m surprised Hendriksen hasn’t snapped on Harry and Ed yet.”  
  


***

  
  
The hotel room in Montreal was just awkward. Dean would never admit it, but it made him miss Sammy. Sam could annoy the hell out of him but he knew the all of his ticks, knew what to expect. But Rubesen, Rubesen did things like sing in the shower and watch some television show about some Dr. Sexy and his hospital full of slutty interns.   
  
Two hours in and Dean was going insane. Luckily though, Rubesen took off for the night and Dean laid back on the bed in blessed silence. He though briefly about calling up Sam but remembered that his girlfriend was just a few rooms down and though better of it. He had half a mind to go find Vic Hendriksen or the Trickster for the night but, embarrassingly, he found himself falling asleep before he could.   
  
He woke up a few hours later as Rubesen stumbled inside, obviously trying to keep quiet Dean shook his head and turned on the lights. “Don’t worry about it,” he said off Rubesen’s wide-eyed look. “Light sleeper.”  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbled.  
  
Dean rolled over and grabbed a water bottle from his bag. “Drink up, dude. We’re playing tomorrow and Reznick ain’t who we want in goal.”  
  
It was supposed to be a peace offering, some way to fix whatever grudge Rubesen was harboring against him. He hadn’t even remembered that he’d filled his spare water bottle up with holy water after the Philly game. It wasn’t something that crossed his mid at two in the morning.   
  
But Rubesen brought the water bottle to his mouth and the second his lips hit the water his let out a hiss as steam from the burns curled out of his mouth.


	5. Rubesen

His brother picked up the phone on its third ring and growled, “Not tonight, Dean.”  
  
Dean pinched his nose, trying to get the blood flow to stop. “Sammy, we have a huge problem.”  
  
“I’m with Jess.”  
  
Probably in bed with Jess. Lucky bastard. If Dean focused, he could hear her breathing smooth and easy, which made him kind of jealous considering every breath Dean took right now hurt like hell. “I know that, genius. Bring her too. We’ve got a really freaking big problem and while it physically pains me to admit it, I’m in over my head here. I need you and your freakishly large brain for back up.”  
  
“Calm down,” Sam said in what Dean had always privately referred to as his talking to crazy people tone of voice. “Tell me what happened.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes even though there was no one there to see it. “I’ve got Rubesen tied to a chair.”  
  
That woke the brat up. “Jesus, Dean. I get that you two have some issues but...”  
  
“Sammy, he’s possessed. I managed to knock him out and tie him to a chair. I’ve got salt lines and a Devil’s Trap on the ceiling but I’m not leaving and I don’t have the stuff for an exorcism and I think I broke my nose--”  
  
“I’ll be there in three minutes,” Sam said.   
  
“Bring holy water.”  
  


***

  
  
There was a rap at the door and Dean checked the peephole only to find his little brother’s gigantic mug staring back at him. He unlocked the door and stepped back to let his brother enter with Jess trailing behind him. Sam moved into the room, checking his work on the Devil’s Trap he’d hastily scrawled onto the ceiling. Rubesen, or at least Rubesen’s body was under the trap, still unconscious, his chin lolling against his chest.   
  
“Your nose is broken,” Jess told him.   
  
“I play hockey. I can tell.”  
  
Jess rolled her eyes, reached up to grab his face and with a single quick decisive moment realigned the break. She tilted her head to the side. “You know three or four breaks ago you were probably a very pretty guy.”  
  
“Hilarious,” Dean snapped. “You sure you want to be here for the exorcism, this isn’t going to be pretty.”  
  
“After I almost fried a few years ago? In for a penny, in for a pound. Let’s smoke this son of a bitch out.”  
  
“Jess, marry me.”   
  
“Standing right here,” Sam snapped.  
  
“Demon ringing any bell?” Jess reminded them and the weight of the world came crashing back down.  
  
Rubesen was unconscious and to Dean, he didn’t look like he was breathing. It was pure luck Dean had managed to get him corralled and into the chair and pure luck he stayed unconscious as he’d drawn the Devil’s Trap.   
  
“Dean, I don’t like this,” Sam said and Dean could read the thoughts behind his eyes. The ones neither of them wanted to consider.  
  
 _If Rubesen was possess and the whole of the Flyers were possessed, anyone could be._  
  
“Holy water in the Gatorade for everyone tomorrow then,” Jess said in annoyance. “I can cover it. Start the exorcism already.”  
  
They’d only done this three times. Once when Dean was fourteen holding a shotgun on a demons as his dad’s voice rose to the heavens, Sammy curled up safe three rooms over. Once the year Jess had almost been burned to death by the same demon that had killed Mary Winchester. Once the year dad died.  
  
The demon wearing Rubesen’s skin woke up halfway through the exorcism eyes black. Sam faltered just a second as Rubesen took a long rattling breath. It was the first sound Dean had heard him make since knocking him unconscious and the realization shot chills down his spine.  
  
Jess grabbed his arm, pulling him back away from the Devil’s trap. “This is a little excessive don’t you think, boys,” Rubesen said but the voice was all wrong, light and almost feminine with a seductive quality he’d always associated with succubi.  
  
“You’re in our goalkeeper,” Dean said. “It’s a little bit personal.”  
  
“I’m here to help you,” the demon replied. “If you two idiots are willing to get off your high horses for a second.”  
  
“There are three of us,” Jess interjected.  
  
“I wasn’t going to count you, blondie, but if you insist, you can be an idiot too.”  
  
“Keep reading, Sam.”  
  
After only a slight hesitation the familiar sounds of Latin resumed.   
  
“I’m on your side.”  
  
“Tell you a secret,” Dean said conspiratorially, “we don’t deal with demons. Ever. But if you wanted to deal, you probably should have hopped into a body of someone we didn’t know.”  
  
“I hopped into a body that had expired, genius. I recycle. Eco-friendly and all that. Rubesen here was just a bonus. His soul’s gone. You’re just exorcising a corpse.”  
  
Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him away. The three of them huddled near the door while the demon wearing Rubesen watched them with a faint smile. “We don’t know Rubesen’s dead,” Jess said. “Demons lie, right?”  
  
“We keep going,” Sam agreed. “Dead or not.”  
  
Dean pressed his eyes shut and exhaled slowly. “If he’s dead, I’m screwed, Sam. He’s in my room and I can pretty much assure you that both of us spilt some blood here. They’re going to pin me for murder. It’s like he freaking planned it.”  
  
“Probably did.”  
  
“What are we supposed to do?”  
  
“Keep reading, Sam,” Dean ordered. “Until we know otherwise, we assume he’s lying.”  
  
“Dean—“   
  
“Do it! We’ve got the morning skate in like four hours and I’d really love to sleep.”  
  
They turned around, Sam’s voice ringing out loud and clear. Jess staring defiant because she hadn’t been afraid since Sam pulled her off that ceiling four years ago. Dean with his arms crossed, eyes wide open because he wasn’t going to let any demon get the drop on him.  
  
“You’re making a mistake,” the demon said. “There’s an apocalypse going on and you knuckleheads are going to need all the help you can get.”  
  
“You’re lying,” Dean hissed. “You’re lying about the apocalypse and you’re lying about what happened to Rubesen.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Prove it.”   
  
“Fine,” the demon hissed, unbuttoning Rubesen’s shirt to show a mottled mess of black and blue flesh. “Hit and run in Philly. His soul had already flown the coop before I got on for the ride.”  
  
Jess stepped forward just a step, peering at the wounds. “Dean, I think it’s telling the truth.”  
  
“Settled then,” Rubesen said, refastening the buttons on his shirt. “How about you guys let me go so we can talk  _business_?”  
  


***

  
  
“You look like death, Winchester,” Ellen said as he came off of the optional morning skate. “Should have taken a leaf out of Rubesen’s book and slept this one off.”  
  
Dean tried to smile but he new it looked all wrong on his face. His left eyes was blacked and swollen and his broken nose hurt every time he tried to breathe.   
  
“You and Rube didn’t kill each other, did you?”  
  
He let out a dry chuckle. “Rube didn’t make it in last night.”  
  
“How would you know?” Ellen snapped. “By the looks of you I half think you spent your night either in the hospital or jail.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“You do remember we have a game today, right?”  
  


***

  
  
At game time, Ellen was fuming. She’d already made the decision to go with Reznick but if Dean had learned one thing from the last two months with the Rage it was that you showed up to late, Ellen grew devil horns and shot lasers out of her eyes.   
  
It wasn’t pretty.  
  
In Rubesen’s absence, thee glare was directed on whoever had the misfortune to move into her line of sight. Dean felt himself squirming under the weight of the gaze.  
  
“What the hell is her problem,” Dean muttered to Sam. It was his first game back after his suspension. “It’s not like Rubesen blowing off the game is my fault.”  
  
“Dean he’s tied to a chair in your room.”  
  
“Details, details.”  
  
Reznick lumbered onto the ice at game time and Dean settled down to the ice, stick at the ready as Andy Gallagher took the face off.  
  
It was a train wreck, but the Rage games were always train wrecks. It was like they could never get their offense and defense on the same page. They’d kill off a penalty only to give up a short handed goal ten minutes later.   
  
Dean for his part kept his head down and worked hard. He didn’t take stupid penalties and he hit the ice more then once. One the bench he mumbled words of encouragement to Ben and advice to Adam and Lucas and only barely refrained from calling Harry and Ed idiots to their faces.  
  
In short he’d gone straight back to being the kind of player he’d always been. The one who’d been named one of the assistant captains after just plain outworking the competition in training camp.   
  
Ellen still looked ready to kill him.  
  
“She looks ready to kill everybody, dude,” Sam said, frowning at the fresh stick in his hands. He’d splintered his old one on a slap shot and the new one didn’t quite have the right feel.  
  
They had a brief rally in the third to pull within a goal but the Habs netted the requisite empty-netter to win by two. In the locker room, they all knew what it meant.  
  
With Toronto having snapped their losing streak, the Lawrence Rage was now officially the worst team in the Eastern Conference.  
  
“We’re meeting for the flight home tomorrow morning at ten. We’ll get there, get home and on Monday we’ve got practice.” There was a special note in her voice that reminded Dean of his high school team and line sprints up and down the ice. Pretty much the entire room was wincing.   
  
No one said anything for a long line and then Bobby sat down to the loud sounds of fake flatulence. Andy, Ben and Dean stifled snickers but Bobby’s eyes sought them out and shut them up before he rounded on the Trickster. “Is this all just a game to you, boy?”  
  
Jobeson returned the stare for longer then Dean would have managed before he shot Bobby a cocky grin. “Honestly? Yes.”  
  
“Idjit,” Bobby grunted. “Just because I’m a veteran doesn’t mean I can’t still kick your ass.”  
  
“Try me,” Jobeson said taking a step toward him. Gordon, always ready for a fight was suddenly on his feet as well.  
  
“Guys,” Hendriksen ordered. “Take a step back and chill the fuck out.”  
  
“Oh, this isn’t any of your business, Vic. You just sit on down.”  
  
This was looking bad. Dean hadn’t been on a team with a locker room blow up before but he could tell by the look on Max Miller and Scott Carey’s faces that they had. This was going to be bad. Beside him, Sam was watching the scene, frozen and if someone didn’t do something.  
  
“Boobs!” he blurted without thinking.  
  
...and suddenly all eyes were on Dean Winchester. He squirmed.   
  
“Nice one, dude,” Sam said under his breath.  
  
One day, Dean was going to kill his brother.   
  
“What did you just say, Winchester?” Gordon hissed in that low dangerous.  
  
“Boobs,” Dean repeated. “And beer. I’m thinking lots of beer.”  
  
Andy raised his hand hesitantly and Dean could have kissed him in relief. “I could really use a beer.”  
  


***

  
  
They let Rubesen out before the flight because neither Sam, Jess nor Dean could come up with a single way of covering up the dead body of a teammate. They’d taken to calling him Ruby amongst themselves because it felt wrong to still call him Rube. They made it a point to keep one of them near him at all times. It was exhausting but not so bad as it could have been. Sam and Dean already spend the majority of the day with the team, stalking a teammate, though the new pastime wasn’t exactly difficult.  
  
“Ruby’s intel checks out,” Jess told Dean after the hardest practice he’d had since high school. His surgically repaired knee was screaming its disapproval. “I had my friend, Jo look into it.”  
  
It would never cease to amaze Dean that after just a few years of being on the hunter circuit, Jess had managed to amass four times the contacts that the Winchesters had in their entire life.  
  
“She says there’s something big brewing. Reports of demonic possession are up something like two hundred percent and there have been these little pockets of activity. Like there are a few groups fighting.”  
  
“I don’t like this.”  
  
“I don’t think anyone does,” Jess replied.  
  
“No, I mean I don’t like the fact that you’re holding a giant needle,” Dean said. “Demons I can deal with.”  
  
“It’s a cortisone shot for your knee. Don’t be such a baby.”  
  


***

  
  
The weirdest thing was Ruby actually seemed to be a  _better_  goaltender then Rubesen had been. It took him a few days to get used to it, grumbling about a differently shaped body. When Sam had commented on it, Ruby had simply narrowed borrowed eyes and replied, “Why the hell do you think Patrick Roy was so good?”  
  
Dean decided not to think about that one too hard. Because the though of demons playing hockey made his brain hurt as much as that movie about angels playing baseball, not to mention the fact that judging by speech patterns and the rather disturbing swing of Rubesen’s hips, Ruby wasn’t exactly used to wearing a male.  
  
His head hurt.  
  
But coming after two consecutive days of hard skating practices, the Rage’s home stand resembled that of a real hockey team.  
  
They beat Sam’s old team, the LA Kings in a shootout then lost to Detroit on a fluky deflection and the Red Wings when they’d snuck one past Ruby on a 5v3 before shutting out the Washington Capitals who were currently the highest scoring team in the league.  
  
After the Washington game, Ellen called him back into her office, carefully checking that the door was locked behind them, fixed Dean with an icy glare. “All right, Winchester,” she said. “I need to know how long Rubesen’s been possessed.”  
  
Dean, who had been expecting some sort of reprimand, blinked twice. “I’m sorry but,  _what?_ ”


	6. The New Jersey Angels

“How long has Rubesen been possessed,” Ellen repeated like she was a hunter rather then a hockey coach. Dean’s brain short circuited. He still had his undershirt on. He really wanted a shower. It was like the end of every hunt except this wasn’t a hunt, this was hockey.  
  
“How do you know about possessions?”  
  
Ellen gave him a look, the same kind of look that she gave Harry and Ed when the failed to understand some of their drills in practice. “You know Jessica’s friend? Joanna Beth? Jo? She’s my daughter. I’ve known about you Winchester boys for a while now. why the hell do you think I pushed so hard for the GM to get you two on my team?”  
  
“Because we’re one of the better defensive pairs in the league?”  
  
“The fact that you could play was a bonus, Winchester. No one thought you were going to amount to much at all when you tore up that knee.”  
  
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, coach.”  
  
“What I’m telling you ain’t news, Dean. It’s fact. I wanted you on my team because there’s been something brewing over this league and much as I hate saying it, it’s not something anyone’s going to be able to handle on their lonesome.”  
  
“I’m sorry, you’re a  _hunter_?”  
  
“I’ve been fighting demons since you were in peewee leagues, kid.”  
  
Dean scratched the back of his neck. “Honestly, so have I.” He coughed. “I didn’t know about Rubesen until you had me room with him in Montreal. Ruby says it’s been in since Philly.”  
  
“Makes sense,” Ellen muttered. “The demons seem to be pooling there. Something big’s been happening.”   
  
“Everyone on the Flyers is possessed too.”  
  
“Don’t exaggerate.”  
  
“No you don’t understand.  _Everyone_ on the Fliers is possessed. If there’s some sort of conspiracy going on in the NHL, that’s where it’s centered.”  
  
“While that’s just a barrel of laughs isn’t it. Why haven’t you and your brother preformed an exorcism on Rubesen?”  
  
“We’re pretty sure the body’s expired. Ruby keeps trying to get us to trust him, says he’s on our side. Honestly, I didn’t want to have him show up dead while we were still on the road. That was going to be a big mess for me.”  
  
“I’ll handle it,” Ellen said.   
  
And it sounded like it was the end of it.  
  


***

  
  
They wind up in a bar two days later sharing drinks with Jess and her friend Jo who was in from out of town. “You should have told me you were Ellen’s family,” Jess said, throwing an arm over Jo’s shoulder and Dean felt his brain short circuit for a second as certain pictures flooded into his mind.  
  
Sam elbowed him in the stomach. Jo was giving him a look, half-amused, half-disgusted. “Not exactly a secret. Not my fault you guys didn’t figure it out.”  
  
“I’m still kind of stuck at how many hunting families have ties in the NHL,” Dean said.   
  
“Dean,” Sam said. “We only know three.”  
  
“Oh.” Jo took a sip of her drink and gave them a mischievous smile. “There are four. Trust me. We figured it out in the off season. Mom was trying to pick a team that wasn’t going to freak out if they saw demons.”  
  
“And she picked up Andy and Chuck?” Sam asked. “Why?”  
  
Dean shook his head. “Have you seen any of the stuff Chuck’s written? Tricks got a hold of it early in the season. Demons all over the place.”  
  
“Andy’s the most laid back guy you’ve ever met,” Jess offered. “He’d probably have a panic attack for about twenty seconds and then just roll with it.”  
  
“Certainly explains why we wound up with Gordo and Jake. I mean what kind of team needs two enforcers? We probably would have been fine without either of them. Tricks can more then hold his own.”  
  
“So can you, huh Dean,” Jo teased. “Caught your fight a few weeks ago. Real stellar stuff.”  
  
“He was a demon.”  
  
“You still lost a fight to some pimply faced call-up.” Jo turned to the rest of the bar, mostly to hide her amusement and surveyed the crowd. There weren’t many bars in Lawrence so you could always pick out a few of the hockey team. Ben and Lucas shooting pool. Andy and Chuck attempting to hit a dart board. But Jo’s eyes narrowed in quickly and decisively on Victor Hendriksen. She stood up, offering the table a quick smile. “Excuse me.”  
  
Sam laughed, turning to his brother. “Burned, dude.”  
  
“I didn’t loose that fight. We both ended up on the ice.”  
  
“I didn’t want to say it,” Jess said, sneaking a handful of peanuts. “But yeah, you kind of lost that fight.”  
  


***

  
  
Reports started trickling in. Reports from old hunting buddies of dad whose bridges had not been burned. Stories about mass exorcisms and mass graves. Dean started watching the Philadelphia games whenever he could. Snatchings minutes on television, trying to see if people were making progress, but he’d catch a flash of black in the eyes and knew that things weren’t getting better.  
  
But at least they weren’t getting worse. Eric, Marc and Jordan Staal called him in successive days to report that as far as they could tell the instances of demonic possession in the NHL began and ended with Philadelphia.  
  
Ruby failed to do anything interesting. According to Jess, she’d made a few passes at Sam who’d been clueless about the first three attempts and then spat beer out onto the table when he’d figured it out. Jess had been positively jubilant when recounting the tale to Dean. Dean was pretty sure she wouldn’t have been quite so amused by the prospect of a demon wearing a man’s body attempting to seduce her boyfriend if she’d know about the brief phase he’d went through in high school.  
  
There were omens cracking up all over the country and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were following the Flyers. If it was the off season, the Winchesters would have been tracking them, trying to put a stop to what they were doing.  
  
As it was, they were stuck waiting until the next time they crossed paths with them.  
  
Which wasn’t until after the all star break.  
  
“It’s going to turn out all right,” Jess told them. “Jo’s put the word out. We’re going to figure something out.”  
  
The next morning they got the word that Rubesen had been traded. Dean went to Ellen’s office after practice, knocking twice. “Are you insane, Coach?”  
  
“You might want to watch that tone of voice with me.”  
  
Dean shut the door carefully behind him. “Rubesen’s possessed. You can’t just shove him off and figure he’s someone else’s problem. This isn’t some jackass in the locker room, this is a demon.”  
  
Ellen shuffled through a stack of papers, raised her eyebrow and said, “If half of what I’ve heard about some of those folks on New Jersey is true, I’d be more worried about Rubesen then I was about them.”  
  
“What’s happening in New Jersey?”  
  
“Crazy rumors is what’s happening. Can’t really confirm or deny anything.”  
  
Dean hated it when people tried to evade him but since Ellen was his coach, he couldn’t really bring himself to do so. “Who did we get in this deal?”  
  


***

  
  
Jimmy Novak, from what Dean understood was the quintessential journeyman goaltender. He was an excellent back-up without the flare needed to be a full time starter. He made all the stops he was supposed to make and got beat on shots no one would expect him to stop. Only he was in the NHL and to be a starting goalkeeper in the NHL you usually needed a little bit of magic.  
  
If nothing else, Dean was glad not to have to worry about a demon in the net.  
  
“I know Jimmy,” Chuck said, as nervous as he always seemed to be. To say something against Rubesen would only cause tension in those who had considered him a friend. Chuck was always hyperaware of those lines and the people on either side of him. “We played together in Tulsa.”  
  
As far as Dean was concerned, people who passed Chuck’s litmus test were all right in his book.   
  
Jimmy showed up as the Rage were preparing to leave for their road trip and Dean looked him over critically. He was a surprisingly skinny guy, not quite the normal size for a goalkeeper but he had almost military stiff posture moving like he wasn’t quite comfortable with his own skin. He sat down almost primly on his bench as they waited for their flight, not even bothering to shed the great tan trench coat.   
  
“Looks like he’s got an even bigger stick in his ass then you, Sammy.”  
  
No one went over to say hi to Jimmy and Jimmy didn’t make the effort to talk with anyone else. He just sat quietly on the flight, staring out the window in apparent fascination of the clouds.   
  
The game started the Rage’s west coast swing where Jimmy faced trial by fire against the San Jose Sharks.   
  
They lost and they lost badly. Only three to nothing but in a game where the Rage only had twelve shots on goal, it was a sound ass-whooping.   
  
Jimmy Novak sat wordless through the post game lecture, hands folded neatly in his lap. Bobby made it a point to go over to the goalkeeper and clap a hand onto his shoulder. “Welcome to the Rage, kid,” he muttered. “Best get used to it.”  
  
Jimmy just tilted his head to the side and said, “Thank you.”  
  
Dean didn’t think much of it. Goalies were all a little bit off and as far as he was concern Jimmy was better then a demon. Dean had long ago lowered his standards.  
  


***

  
  
That night at 12:24, someone started pounding on the Winchester’s hotel room door. Dean checked the peephole before electing to open the door. “Chuck,” he said.  
  
“Hello Dean,” Chuck said, his words all running together. “Nice day we’re having sucked about the loss though do you think I could come in?”  
  
“What are you doing here?” Dean kept the door partway closed, behind him Sam scrambled to pack up the books of occult literature.   
  
“I need to talk to you guys,” Chuck said. “It’s about Jimmy. Can I come in? I don’t really want anyone else hearing this.”  
  
Dean glanced over to his brother who had packed the books away and turned on the television to show the highlights of some basketball game he didn’t care about and stepped aside to let Chuck come in.  
  
“If you’ve got a problem with Jimmy, why come to me?”   
  
“Look, I know you and your brother are into that weird occult stuff, you know? I’ve seen you with those books on the planes even though you try to hide it. And I get it. It’s not something I like to advertise but I did a lot of research into stuff like that for my book and I’m pretty sure it’s going to sound crazy if I go to anyone else.”  
  
Sam stood up, watching Chuck with curiosity. “What’s with Jimmy?”  
  
“That’s just it,” Chuck said breathlessly. “I don’t think it’s Jimmy.”  
  
“What are you talking about,” Dean asked, eyes flickering over to Sam as they exchanged a brief look to confirm they were on the same page; _possession._  
  
“I offered to room with him, right? Because we were friends when we were playing together in Tulsa. But he’s not the same guy. He talks different, moves different...” He trailed off for a moment and then continued more cautiously. “It reminds me of what happened to Ruby.”  
  
The Winchesters exchanged a glance.  
  
“You guys know what’s happening,” Chuck said, eyes darting from one brother to the other.  
  
“We can go talk to Jimmy,” Dean replied. “Sam you think maybe Jess could come up and keep an eye on Chuck here.”  
  
“Bullshit, guys, I don’t need a baby sitter.”  
  
Sam ignored him, picking up the phone to dial Jess’s room. As surreptitiously as he could, Dean slipped a knife into his sleeve.  
  


***

  
  
The door to Chuck’s room opened on its own violation a second after Dean had knocked. Behind him, Sam glanced down either end of the hall and withdrew his gun. “Jimmy,” Dean called. “Jimmy, man, you’ve really freaked Chuck out.”  
  
No one behind the door. Sam confirmed no one in the bathroom.  
  
“You think he’s out somewhere?  
  
“What are the odds we traded a demon for another?”  
  
“I don’t like this,” Dean said. “Let’s get out of here.”  
  
He turned around only to have the door slam shut behind him. “Not a good sign.”  
  
There was a rush of wind, a flutter of wings and behind then was Jimmy Novak, looking impossibly tall and constrained in such a small hotel room. Dean held up a hand to Sam, halting his brother before he could take a shot. They’d already suffered through one teammate lost to possession. They couldn’t afford another.  
  
“Christo,” Dean said.  
  
Jimmy Novak did not blink. “Hello, Dean, Samuel.” His voice was sandpaper rough like someone’s usual cadence through a cheese grater. Unnatural. “We need to talk.”  
  
“Who the hell are you?” Sam demanded.  
  
“What the hell are you?”  
  
“My name is Castiel,” Jimmy Novak said and there was a flash of something dark and huge behind him. Something in Dean’s traitorous mind thought _wings. Jimmy Novak has wings_. “I am an angel of the lord.”  
  
Dean blinked twice, processing the information, rejecting it. “Whatever you say, dude. Please tell me you can actually play hockey.”


	7. Castiel

Sam believed him. Dean could read it on his face the instant he flashed the wings. Dean didn’t buy that particular brand of bullshit but in his book a faux angel creature was better then a goalkeeper possessed by a demon.  
  
“Why are you here?” Sam asked, somewhat reverently.  
  
“He’s here because he got traded,” Dean growled. “Why the hell do you think he’s here?”  
  
Castiel cast an inquisitive glance at Dean before hesitantly turning his focus to Sam. “There have been signs cropping up all around this league for the years. Ever since The Season That Wasn’t, we have suspected that the final battle would be centered around the organization known as the National Hockey League.”  
  
“You mean the apocalypse?” Sam said. “The possessions in Philly.”  
  
Castiel nodded solemnly. “Much of the New Jersey Devils are inhabited by God’s legions.”  
  
Dean snorted. Both Sam and Castiel stared at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But the NHL as a vehicle for the apocalypse? The New Jersey Devil’s being ridden by freaking angels? I don’t buy it.”  
  
Blue eyes narrowed as Castiel took a step toward Dean. “Are you questioning the word of God?”  
  
“I’m questioning God himself, big guy. I don’t believe in him and I definitely don’t believe you.”  
  
“There is a reason I’ve been sent here,” Castiel said. “Is it not true that you, the Winchester brothers have endeavored to hunt throughout the season? I’m here to offer you help and protection.”  
  
“Why us?” Sam asked.  
  
“Because you’re important. You are both involved in God’s plan.”  
  
“Well, that’s super.” Dean clapped his hands together. “But let me tell you this; we need a goalkeeper more then a babysitter.”  
  
“This is important,” Castiel insisted.  
  
“So is the game,” Dean snapped, signaling for Sam to head out the door. “We’ll be watching you. And stop scaring Chuck.”  
  


***

  
  
There wasn’t much time to worry. The team flew to Phoenix, holding up in another hotel while they waited for their Sunday matinee against the Coyotes. Instead of enjoying the nightlife, Dean found himself with his brother and his girlfriend in their cramped room with the windows drawn watching the New Jersey Devils square off with the Philadelphia Flyers.  
  
“Angels and demons, huh?” Jess said. She’d popped a bag of popcorn in the small kitchenette’s microwave, tossing a few kernels into her mouth. “Playing hockey?”  
  
“That’s what I keep trying to tell this one,” Dean muttered, jerking a thumb toward his brother. “It’s like saying you can go to a petting zoo and ride a unicorn.”  
  
“I’m taking the Devils in overtime,” Sam said abruptly.   
  
“And by the Devils you don’t mean the demons but the team full of supposed angels?”  
  
“You know what I mean, Dean.”  
  
“I doubt a bunch of pansy ass angels can play hockey. I’ll take the Flyers in regulation.”  
  
“Standard bet,” Jess asked. “You two going to shake on it or what?”  
  
“And leave you out of this action?” Dean teased. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”  
  
“I’m in.” His brother stuck out a hand. “The demons win this hockey game and I’ll be on weapons smuggling for the next road trip.”  
  
“You know I’m taking that bet.”  
  
The New Jersey Devil’s won three goals to two in regulation.   
  
“Good triumphs over evil,” Sam cried gleefully.   
  
“I still think this angels and demon thing is bullshit,” Dean grumbled, already mentally rolling through the ways of how to sneak an arsenal past airport security.  
  


***

  
  
Castiel showed up in Dean’s dream.  
  
“Lemme guess,” Dean sneered. “Dreamwalking is another manifestation of your angelic power and you’re here to show me the true path so you can win your wings.”  
  
“I already have wings.”  
  
“Saw your buddies lay a beating down on the demons up in Philly.”  
  
“The game is not important.”  
  
“Like hell the game isn’t important.”  
  
“There is a bigger picture,” Castiel growled. “In the past two months, I have lost many of my brothers to this higher cause. There are seals strewn throughout the country. Like locks against the gateway to hell. If sixty-six of them fall, then Lucifer walks free.”  
  
“So why the hell are you here?”  
  
“Because I have been tasked with your protection. I am not one to question the higher powers.”  
  
“Why are you here.”  
  
“To inform you that another seal has fallen tonight. To encourage you to be on your guard.”  
  
“In other words, you’re here because you can be. Do me a favor, Cas and get out of my head.”  
  


***

  
  
The locker room before the game was a somber affair. Victor Hendriksen had gotten word of an accident to Carl Rubesen. He in critical condition in a hospital in New Jersey after an apparent hit and run. Dean shifted in his seat, tugging on his skates, recognizing the situation for what it was.  
  
Someone had done an exorcism and the exorcism had left Carl Rubesen in the hospital, slave to the wounds Ruby had inflicted before she screamed out of him. Sam and Dean exchanged glances but every one else on the team had their eyes on Castiel, on Jimmy Novak as he attempted to ascertain the right way to put on the pads.   
  
“I’d say we dodged that bullet,” Gordon Walker growled, glaring at Castiel in disdain. “But I’m not so sure.”  
  
“Lay of him,” Chuck snapped.   
  
“Guys,” Dean barked. “Settle down! Game time.”  
  
“Win this one for Rube,” Lucas said quietly. “Even if he isn’t one of us anymore.”  
  


***

  
  
It turned out that while the majority of angels might be more then adept at ice hockey, Castiel was not one of them. The technique, miraculously was there, but the rebounds were long at he had problems getting back up to his feet.   
  
The game turned into a shootout, a up-tempo, run and gun affair that the Phoenix crowd loved and Dean despised. He was most at home in a defensive minded game. His brother had always been the more offensive of the pair. Dean was an old-fashioned kind of defensemen. The kind that racked up the minutes. The kind you wanted on the ice while trying to kill a 5v3. Every team had at least one guy like him but in the increasingly offensive minded league, they were becoming more and more scarce.  
  
They lost six to four. Dean had an assist and the highest plus/minus on the team but it wasn’t something he cared about. He just wanted a win. Castiel was the last one in the locker room, well after the rest of the team had headed back to the hotel.  
  
“Rough game,” Dean offered, unsure of how exactly he was supposed to talk to a being that claimed to be an angel.  
  
“I understand theory of the game,” Castiel said. He’d changed back into the trench coat at some point though neither Dean nor anyone else had seen it happen. “I’ve watch since its inception. I simply cannot... reconcile the differences between theory and practice.”  
  
“If you’re going hang with us humans, you know you’re going to have to learn to play this game.”  
  
“I know how to play this game.”  
  
“That’s good to hear but when we get back to Lawrence, we’re going to get some practice.”  
  


***

  
  
Which was how Dean found himself staying late a every practice to give Castiel pointers. He’d been a goaltender for a year in a juniors league and while he’d hated every minute of it, he’d been pretty good.   
  
Of course, he’d been twelve at the time. Nowhere near NHL level, but good enough to know basic tactics.  
  
Castiel had it easier then most. His vessel, Jimmy Novak was known as one of the most technically sound goaltender in the league. The muscle memory was there. It just took a while for him to teach Castiel how to use it.  
  
But he got better.  
  
And suddenly, before he knew it, it was the all star break. A five game break for the Winchester brothers while the league’s best gathered in Washington DC for their annual showing. The only player on the Rage with an invite was Victor Hendriksen but Andy Gallagher had been invited for the shooting accuracy part of the skills competition and Ben Braeden had been selected for the annual rookies against sophomores game.   
  
The Winchesters had a hunt lined up for the day but even when they were on different teams, they always found a way to watch the All-Star Game together. It had been this way for as long as Dean could remember. Their own version of a holiday because NHL or not, Dean suspected neither of them would ever play in the All Star Game itself.  
  
That didn’t matter to Dean. He was just glad to be able kick back and share a beer with his little brother.  
  
What he didn’t expect was Castiel, quite literally appearing between the two of them at the start of the third period. “What the hell?” Dean cried, nearly spilling the half empty bottle of beer. “Dude, wear a bell or something!”  
  
“Our presence is needed elsewhere.”  
  
“What the hell are you---“ Sam didn’t get a chance to finish because all of a sudden the three of them were standing on the first floor of what Dean recognized as the Verizon center in Washington DC. The site of this year’s the All Star Game. Home of the Washington Capitals.   
  
“There is a seal in danger of being broken.”  
  
“Are we in DC?”  
  
“The entire stadium is in danger,” Castiel said. “There is dark magic abounding tonight. I cannot---“  
  
He disappeared midword.  
  
“I’m going to go ahead and guess this isn’t good.”  
  
“You got an EMF on you?”   
  
“Dude I got nothing. I thought we were just watching the game.”  
  
“We’re screwed, aren’t we?”  
  
“It’s kind of looking that way.”  
  
The arena erupted into cheers. The smattering of people wondering the concourse all tried to duck back into the arena to see the celebrations and the replay of the goal onscreen. But there was one figure who wasn’t interest in the game. A short guy wearing a baggy sweatshirt, tearing past the snack bars in his haste to get away.  
  
Sam squinted at him. “Andy?”  
  
Andy Gallagher skidded to a stop in front of the Winchesters. His face was pale and sweaty, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. “Sam! Dean! What are you guys doing here?”  
  
“Came to see the game,” Dean said, cutting Sam off before he could say anything. “What happened to you? You look like you just got bulldozed.”  
  
“There’s something going on in here,” Andy sputtered, gesticulating wildly. “There are people—with eyes—who keep.” He forced himself to stop and took a deep breath. “They’ve got Ben.”


	8. The All Star Game

“Ben? Ben Braeden?”  
  
Andy nodded wildly. “It happened this afternoon. We were meeting up to watch the game since Vic was playing and the only other two guys off the Rage here were the two of us but someone grabbed him.”  
  
“Who’ve grabbed him, Andy?” Dean demanded. “Ben’s a big guy. Not a lot of people can get him moving where he doesn’t want to go.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Andy sputtered. “There were a few of them. Big guys. I’ve been looking to find help but the security guards. They’re just gone and—”  
  
“Ben’s a big guy,” Sam repeated, putting a hand on his shoulder. “He can more then take care of himself.”  
  
“Right,” Andy took a deep breath. “Right. I know that. I’m just freaking out because of Rube and this whole thing. I can’t remember a time I was ever this stressed when I was playing in Florida. Hell, this whole season’s got me climbing the walls.”  
  
“You and me both, Gallagher.” Dean crossed his arms. “Now you said someone had Ben.”  
  
“What-what are you going to do?”  
  
“We’ll do what we have to, Andy. Teammate’s the same as family in this league. If he’s in trouble we’re going to bail him out.”  
  
“Right,” Andy said. He looked sheepish somehow. Ashamed that he hadn’t gone after Ben himself. But that wasn’t the kind of person Andy was. On the ice he made his living on evasion, speed and precision. He didn’t take hits if he could help it. Six years in the league and not a single fight. “Follow me, guys.”  
  
Verizon center had the normal rotation of in game characters. There were benches offering promotions for credit cards enticing them with promise of free hockey memorabilia. The usual low-level activity for the snack bars while the puck was in play.   
  
Andy led them halfway around the building to the area right behind the Capitals pro shop. “It was around here, I think.” Andy said. He ran his hand nervously through his air. “Do you guys smell that too or is it just me.”  
  
Sam and Dean exchanged glances.  
  
“Rotten eggs,” Andy continued thoughtfully. “Man that wakes you up more then Jess’s smelling salts.”  
  
“Go find Cas,” Dean hissed to Sam. “Something’s keeping him out of the building and we need all the firepower we can get. Take Andy with you. I’m going after Ben.”  
  
“Wait, what? What the hell are you guys taking about. Who’s Cas? What happened to Ben?”  
  
“Jimmy,” Sam corrected. “We’re headed off to find Jimmy. It’s a stupid nickname Dean gave him.”  
  
“Cas? How the hell do you get Cas from Jimmy Novak?”  
  
“You get it from cast-off, “ Dean said. “Man’s been around the league at least three times.” He locked eyes with his brother again. “Get him the hell out of here.”  
  
Sam ushered Andy out of sight, the smaller man twisting violently to look at Dean. “You know, cast-off is a really mean nickname.”  
  
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. If you were a monster in Verizon center, where did you take your hostage? The answer was simple. The locker rooms. The problem was getting there from the concourse. He didn’t know this arena. It wasn’t Boston. He was only in the Verizon center twice a year and he’d been in through the player’s entrance every time.   
  
He hand no guns on him. Just the two-inch pocket knife that rarely left his person. Whatever was in here was strong enough to boot Castiel out of the arena. It would be smarter to just run.   
  
But it was Ben. One on of the Rage. One of his teammates.  
  
His phone rang. Dean groped through his pockets, fumbling his phone up to his hear. “Sam?”  
  
“We’ve got a problem. We can’t get out of here. Andy’s trying to take me back to their seats...” There were the sounds of cheers shooting up through the arena and then Sam’s quiet cursing. “Dude, they didn’t go under, they went up.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“There’s someone on the catwalk above the ice.”  
  
“Are you serious? You can see that from the stands.”  
  
“I don’t think anyone’s looking up while the puck’s in play. It’s a hell of a game.”  
  
And Dean had to be working through it. With the sheer amount of bad hockey games he participated in, he kind of liked watching a good one every once in a while. “Meet you there.”  
  
“I don’t think so, Dean,” Sam said, quickly. “I’ve been made.”  
  
The phone went dead. “Son of a bitch,” Dean hissed, jogging toward the escalator as the crowd roared its approval from inside the arena. There had to be an access point up here somewhere, something he could use.  
  
To do what? His weapon was barely big enough to put down a four-year-old.  
  
But this was Ben. Halfway through the season and he felt like half of the team, Ben, Adam and Andy especially were extensions of the Winchesters. Forget angels and demons and seals and hell, even hockey.  
  
This one was about family.  
  
He located the service entrance, picking the lock as fast as he could before a security officer approached him. “Sir, I’m going to need you to back away...”  
  
Dean acted fast, catching the officer by surprise and maneuvering him into a sleeper hold, applying pressure until his body went limp. The gun holstered at his him was a bonus. He finished, slipping inside and dragging the unconscious guard behind him to avoid a scene.   
  
Creeping out onto the catwalk, he had to bite back the nausea from the vertigo. There was a reason he never looked out the window during the team flights. The All-Star Game raged on below.   
  
The fall would kill him.  
  
Ben was positioned over the middle of the ice, tied with arms spread to the scaffolding. “Dean!” he called, his breath coming in short gasps. There was a mess of red on his stomach. “Thank God your—why do you have a gun?”   
  
Dean put a finger to his lips, walking over as quietly as he could. “I’m here to help, dude, calm down.”  
  
“Calm down? Are you freaking serious? I’ve been kidnapped and cut and I can’t even watch the damn game.”  
  
“Cut? How bad is it?”  
  
“Surface stuff.” Ben waved a hand. “I’ve had worse from a hockey stick. You are going to untie me, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said, feeling around in his pockets. While Castiel had transported him without warning, it was hard to find a time when Dean was off the ice when he didn’t have some sort of pocket knife on hand. He sawed Ben free from the ropes, nearly buckling under the burly youth as he collapsed. “You all right, dude?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Ben growled. He lifted up the lip of his shirt and Dean just barely glimpsed an intricate symbol etched onto his stomach. “I want an explanation but I want out of here first.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it, buddy.”  
  
Ben’s eyes widened slightly but his scream was drowned out at the cheers of the crowd as Eric Staal put in the tying goal past Roberto Luongo. Dean felt something crash into the side of his face and he sat blood onto the catwalk as the entire stadium trembled.  
  
“I don’t like this,” Ben mumbled as a demon wearing the face of a burly security guard took a swing at Dean.  
  
“You think?” Dean snapped, throwing a sloppy blow of his own.  
  
“You will not stop Lucifer’s army,” the demon hissed.  
  
“Lucifer,” Ben parroted. “Why the hell are you talking about Lucifer?”  
  
Figured Ben’s first instinct wouldn’t be to jump into the fight. Stupid hockey with its stupid rule about third men in.  
  
The demon grabbed Dean by the throat. “For God’s sake, Ben. Help!”  
  
That jarred him into office as he leaped onto the demon’s back while Dean pulled the gun out of his waistband. “Don’t you dare aim that thing at me,” Ben yelled, struggling to keep his hold on the demon.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Dean asked the demon.  
  
“Same thing as you,” the demon smirked.  
  
Below them the game had stopped. The announcer thundered evacuation instructions over the PA. The ground shook. “You’re not going to win this fight.” Dean hissed. “I’m here, my brother’s here and the best and brightest of the NHL are here. And you know the thing about hockey players? We don’t back down from a fight.”  
  
“Did you really think we’d put all our eggs in one basket?”  
  
Before Dean realized what was happening the demon flipped Ben over his shoulder, very nearly off the catwalk. He grabbed one the railing with fingertips. Laughing, the demon stalked toward Dean, unperturbed by the four rounds Dean shot into him.  
  
And then, a miracle. Sam’s voice drifted over the PA, reciting the exorcism ritual loud and clear. All around the stadium, various demons convulsed and the air of Verizon center was suddenly filled with inky, black smoke. The body of the security guard collapsed to the ground, dead and Dean grabbed Ben’s hands to pull him back up to solid ground.  
  
“What the hell was that?” Ben demanded.   
  
“After we get out of here, I’ll explain everything. I promise.”  
  


***

  
  
There were too many people in the house in Lawrence. It was one thing to have Jess around. Another completely to have Ben and Andy hanging out while there were guns within eyesight. Sam was scanning the internet.   
  
“You know my twin brother used to talk about all this demon magic bullshit,” Andy said, wringing his hands together.   
  
“I didn’t know you had a twin brother.” Ben sounded surprisingly steady despite his minor injuries.  
  
“I  _had_  a twin brother. I kind of killed him when we were Twenty.”  
  
“You what?”  
  
“It was self defense and it went down on the books as an accident. But he was on the top of this damn and he was going to kill my girlfriend and I tackled him and there was a scuffle and then he kind of... took the plunge.” Andy was hyperventilating. “I don’t want to be here right now.”  
  
“Everything’s fine,” Jess said, rubbing circles onto his back. “You get used to stuff like this.”  
  
“You know I’ve always though Zdeno Charra was a troll,” Ben said. “This kind of thing makes so much more sense.”  
  
“Half ogre actually,” Dean said off handedly. “Don’t mention it to him. He’s a little touchy on the subject. Nice guy though.”  
  
“Found it,” Sam said. “One of the Russian leagues. Richard Zednik beheads what appears to be a rabid dog with the blade of his skate during a game.”  
  
“Rabid dog?” Dean echoed.  
  
“From the picture, I’m thinking more like a hell hound. How the hell are we supposed to stop the apocalypse if seals are breaking halfway around the world?”  
  
An uncomfortable silence settled over the house until Jess wrinkled her nose and said, “Wait, Zednik beheaded something with his skate?”


	9. The Last Seal

The penalty kill again. Sometimes Dean thought they spent the entire season on the penalty kill. There was probably a metaphor about being on the defensive for the apocalypse somewhere in there but Dean was too tired to think of it. He’d been on the ice for the past one minute-thirty seconds. The puck had been in the zone for the entire time leaving them no room for a line shift.   
  
Fortunately, Castiel had taken to being a goaltender far quicker then he’d taken to pretending to be human. Dean wasn’t ever going to be able to scrub half of those interview snafus off his mind.  
  
He shoved at the man posting up in front of the goal as the New York Islanders slid the puck around the blue line.   
  
The guy in the front of the net shoved him back.  
  
God, he was tired. Last night Castiel zapped them to Chicago to try and stop a ritual that would break another seal.   
  
They failed. Castiel had confided in them that the seals were falling and falling fast. The New Jersey Devils had started trading everyone they possibly could, trying to get at least one angel on every NHL team.  
  
It wasn’t helping.   
  
Sam took a shot off his shin, the puck bouncing back out to the Islander forward who fired a shot of his own.  
  
Castiel’s left blocker flashed out so fast, Dean was pretty sure angel juice was the only reason it wasn’t in the back of the net. Dean wondered if it was amoral to use angelic powers to win a hockey game. He was pretty sure he didn’t care either way. Two periods down and they were up two goals to one. If they won it would be their third straight.  
  
The Rage winning three in a row. That was probably another sign of the apocalypses.  
  
Sprawling on the ice, Ben Braeden took a puck in the side, Ash jumping on it just in time to hurl it down the ice. The meager crowd in their home arena cheered. Dean hustled off for a line change.  
  
The bench was remarkable jovial as Dean watched the power play tick down to nothing. Only Ben and Andy seemed to reflect the reality of the times. Andy was flinching every time someone touched him. Ben seemed constantly ready to start a fight.  
  
The rest of the team was laughing and smiling without the knowledge that the apocalypse was looming.  
  
Ellen spent the intermission sketching out the plan for the third period.  
  
The Rage had never won three games in a row. They’d hovered along all season, wining one out of every three or four.   
  
The third period started with the Islanders hitting hard. Ellen was cycling through the lines quickly, trying to keep everyone fresh.  
  
Ed Zeddmore broke his arm midway through the third period. There wasn’t any sort of malice to the hit. It was just the exact wrong angle, the exact right pressure and the exact wrong time. Dean could see the bone through the skin. Ed sagged against the ice, only half conscious as Jess made her way out to check on him.   
  
Ellen called her time out to shift the lines around. She diagrammed a diagram a play for the face off, told them to keep their head in the game and to listen for changes in the line up.  
  
With Ed gone, things seemed to stabilize on the blue line. The Winchesters were both exhausted, double shifting as much as they physically could be Harry seemed somehow more controlled while missing his counterpart and Ben, dropping back from forward had enough body to clear out the crease for Castiel.  
  
One minute left and the Islanders pulled their goalkeeper. Fourteen seconds before the horn blared to signify the end of the game, Dean intercepted a pass and lobbed it in desperation to the far end of the ice.  
  
It would have been icing only it was on net. It glides smoothly into the goal and as the red light flashes, Dean got the same mildly baffled feeling he always got when he scored. Sam was hugging him a second later, Ben screaming joyfully into his face. Hendriksen clapped a hand on his back and Bobby caught his eye from the bench, giving him the half nod.  
  


***

  
  
There were lights on his face and a microphone waving in front. The microphone was held in front of him by a tall, blonde female reporter, part of the team for the Rage’s local network. Her make-up was caked on an her hair carefully arranged in a way that made Dean think she probably wasn’t a looker until someone made her up for work.  
  
“So, Dean your first goal of the year.”  
  
It wasn’t an actual question but then again it almost never was. The interview techniques of the local network left a lot to be desired. “Yes,” he agreed. “Goal scoring’s not really my thing. I leave that one to Vic Hendriksen.”  
  
“Couldn’t have come at a better time though.”  
  
Dean grinned. “The Rage winning three in a row isn’t exactly a sign of the apocalypse.” He force a laugh. “It’s a long time coming. We’re a good team with a lot of talent and we’re finally starting to get our skates under us.”  
  
“How about that play by Jim Novak?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean replied, careful to avoid mention of Castiel’s name. “Seems like his catching glove gets faster every game. He’s a good guy and we’re lucky to have him.”  
  
“One last question, Dean. I noticed after Zeddmore got hurt there was some turnover in the lines. How do you think you will handle this?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “The nice thing about this group of guys is how versatile we all are. I mean we really hope Zeds is going to be back on his feet but we had Ben covering for him in the back and the forwards making due. I mean it bounces us around a little and it’s a little weird not always skating with Sam, but it’s a good group of guys and we can find the chemistry.”  
  
“Thank you very much,” the report said as she turned back to the camera. “That was Dean Winchester of the Lawrence Rage after their three-two win against the New York Islanders.”  
  


***

  
  
“They’re calling up the antichrist,” Lucas Barr said in the locker room. “He’s going to get here before we hit Detroit.”  
  
“The antichrist?” Castiel asked, his voice grave.  
  
“Yeah,” Adam snorted. “Because what are the odds that the antichrist plays hockey.”  
  
“His name’s Jesse Turner,” Ben offered. “Lucas just didn’t like him because he pulled that prank on him that one time.”  
  
Tricks looked up from the blades of his skate. “Pranks? Do tell.”  
  
Adam shook his head. “Let’s just say it involved a water balloon a, a handkerchief and a badger and it scarred half our team for life.”  
  
The team kept talking, going around the room and swapping stories. Coming off three wins in a row, it was the best locker room atmosphere they’d had all season. Only Ben Braeden looked downcast. Dean approached him as they were exiting the arena. “What’s wrong?”  
  
Ben scuffed his foot on the ground, looking younger then his nineteen years. “Jesse Turner plays my position, Dean.”  
  
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. They had left wingers. They had Ash and the Trickster and Jake Campbell. With a call up at the same position, Ben was going to get pushed out. There were enough forwards. He clapped his hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Hey, you’re worth more then half these clowns.”  
  


***

  
  
What Dean failed to realized was the only call up had been a forward, leaving them to deal with the shortage on the blue line. Apparently, after deciding no one in their farm system fit the profile of an NHL ready blue liner (which answered the question about why Harry and Ed lasted as long as they did) so they used Ben to fill the hole.  
  
Ben wasn’t the most skilled forward when he played but he’d been on their most defensive line and had the body to combat a presence in front of the net and throw a hit. It took him a few games to get his feet under him. Playing defense in a pinch when the team needed it was nowhere near the same as playing it full time.  
  
In a way, it reminded Dean of how his brother looked when he was a freshman on the varsity. He was just a hair too slow going backwards and he had problems with holding onto the puck too long when he was in the defensive zone.  
  
But while he wasn’t one of the most skilled players in the league, he was proving himself to be one of the smarter ones. He adjusted to defense, learned to play with Adam as Lucas started sharing time with Harry.   
  
The played Philadelphia twice in a week. Once at home, once on the road. The games were knock-down drag out, Gordon got tossed for fighting in the first one, tagged with a three game suspension. Andy and Chuck worked well with their line but came off nursing bruises and in Andy’s case, a cracked jaw. He took the painkillers from Jess with relief but refused to sit out.  
  
For the home game, the rage unveiled their alternate home jerseys, a gold jersey with navy trim with a complicated symbol that was actually designed by an old friend of Sam’s.   
  
“Is that a Devil’s trap?” Dean asked Ellen.  
  
“You better believe it,” Ellen said.  
  
The next Philly game, their final one of the series season ended with the Rage down four to two. In the hand shake line after the game, the world went funny. Castiel had taken off his gloves, two fingers pressed against the face of a Flyers defensemen. The lights in the building flickered and the PA crackled and a white light built up out of nowhere.  
  
Then, before Dean knew what was happening, he was in the middle of the brawl.  
  
It went on for what seemed like hours but couldn’t have been more then minutes. He had vague recollections of Sam screaming out the exorcism and fists and lights and then they were all sitting in the locker room as Bobby screamed at them for being immature idiots. When he was done, he sat down and Ellen came in, renewing the verbal onslaught.  
  
Only then did Dean notice that Castiel wasn’t there anymore.  
  
Jess patched them all up one at a time, nearly half the team needing stitches. Dean watched the tiny TV with the post-game coverage. There was no footage of the fight. All cameras had reportedly failed at the exact same time.  
  
Sam, Jess, Dean, Andy and Ben retreat to the Winchester homestead with the intention of getting completely plastered.   
  
When they were halfway there, Castiel appeared before them in a flutter of wings.   
  
“What the hell did you do back there, Castiel?”  
  
“I apologize for my leaving, Dean. I was... frustrated. I could hear the trials of my brothers from afar. I had to do what I could to protect them.”  
  
“Protect them from what?”  
  
“I’m afraid the last seal fell last night.” Castiel looked up somberly to meet Dean’s eyes. “I fear the end has started.”


	10. Lucifer Rising

“I’m sorry,” Andy said, an edge of panic in his voice. “But did I just hear you say that the apocalypse has started?”  
  
Sam stood, rounding on Castiel. “Where were the angels in all this? I thought they were supposed to be fighting. Because in between hockey and freaking demons, we sure as hell have been fighting!”  
  
“The legions of hell proved too strong,” Castiel said tersely. “It seems that hell wants all out war.”  
  
Ben sank down against the couch. “I’m guessing all out war between Heaven and Hell isn’t something humanity’s going to survive.”  
  
“It is entirely likely that all life on Earth will be annihilated.”  
  
“So we stop it,” Jess said. “There’s got to be a way, right? Even if all of these seals have fallen, there’s still got to be a way.”  
  
“The best way would be to head Lucifer off. To prevent him from choosing his vessel. Once he has chosen, I fear that only Michael’s sword has a chance to stop the inevitable.”  
  
“So we find Michael’s sword,” Dean said. “Easy. Find a sword and chop up the Devil. I’ve always wanted to use a sword. It’s more or less like a really big knife, right?”  
  
“Michael’s sword is really more of a metaphor for Michael’s vessel.”  
  
“So Michael’s vessel and Lucifer’s vessel, are they just any random person or can they be any guy off the street.”  
  
“There are... finite possibilities for their vessels. It takes a very special person to play host to an angel.”  
  
Dean shrugged. “So we find these guys and we tell them to just say no. Then done. Apocalypse over.”  
  
“It’s not that simple,” Castiel protested. “We have identified three different possible vessels for each Michael and Lucifer. All of them reside in the National Hockey League.”  
  
“You’re kidding, right?” Andy said. “Please tell me he’s kidding.”  
  
“So pick your favorite,” Dean said. “We’ll stake them out whenever we can. Make sure they don’t have a chance to get possessed. Problem solved. Come on, Cas. Who do you like.”  
  
Castiel fell quiet for a long moment. There was a curious slump to his shoulders and Dean could almost imagine his wings expressing his regret. He looked pointedly at Sam and then Dean.  
  
Jess made the connection before either of the Winchester brothers. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. These two? Sam and Dean are going to be key players in an apocalypse? If you told me Sean Avery was going to be the Devil and Pavel Datsyuk the angel, I might believe you. Might.”  
  
“It’s not going to happen, Cas,” Dean said. “There’s no way Sam’s going to be the Devil’s bitch and I’m sure as hell not signing up to be some angel condom.”  
  
“Hey, how come I’m supposed to be Lucifer. You’re clearly the one who’s Lucifer.”  
  
“See what I mean.” Jess shook her head. “Sam and Dean Winchester are not going to be fighting each other and they’re sure as hell not going to end the world.”  
  
“The Winchesters are only two of the likely candidates,” Castiel said. “They are the ones who have been entrusted to my care. I do not know of the others.”  
  
“So what do we do?” Ben asked, looking over to Dean for guidance.  
  
Dean looked over to their wall where a picture of John, him and Sam smiled over at him. “We finish the season. Cas says this is going to go down in the NHL so we keep an eye out for who and what and hope to God we can do something to stop it.”  
  


***

  
  
Jess called Sara and Jo. Sarah put the word out to Kathleen who got in touch with Charlie and Rebecca. It was the cascading pyramid of hunters, each of them picking and NHL team. Each of them watching for signs that Castiel probably could point through angel vision.  
  
But Dean didn’t trust the angels. Not when they’d already ushered in the apocalypse. Not after when Castiel told him the Winchesters brothers were fated to play angels and demons.  
  
He wouldn’t do it. And he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Sam wouldn’t either.  
  
“Lucifer is circling a vessel,” Castiel told them in the locker room after a 3-2 loss to Toronto. “My brothers are attempting to stop it.”  
  
“Where?” Dean hissed. “We can’t do a thing if you don’t tell us where.”  
  
“It is too dangerous for you, Dean. We must protect the interest of those who could serve Michael’s purposes.”  
  
Dean felt like he’d been drenched in cold water. Like he’d fallen through the ice in the pond like he had when he was seven years old. Not because of his role in this, but because of what could have been Sam’s.  
  


***

  
  
The season moved on and the world didn’t end. The Rage were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs. No one was surprised.  
  
“Don’t you think it’s strange,” Sam asked, staring at the ceiling. “I mean yeah, there’s been a few more demons this year then normal, but I just expected the apocalypse to be a little more... apocalyptic.”  
  
“Florida’s set to make the playoffs this year. So is Anaheim. How is that not a sign of the apocalypse?”  
  
“I don’t know Dean. I’m not complaining, but I was expecting things like a rain of blood and ritualistic suicide. Not the Ducks getting their act together.”  
  
“There’s only seven games left in the season.” Dean carefully dismantled his gun, cleaning off the pieces before reassembling them as efficiently as he could. “I’m sure we can find you a river blood afterward if you really want to.”  
  
“Jerk,” Sam muttered.  
  
“Bitch,” Dean returned.  
  
The next morning they got the word that Sarah Blake had died in Pittsburgh in the hours just after the Penguins-Flyers game. But it wasn’t the fact that she died. It was how she died. The ritualistic positioning of the body. The fact that the Flyers were in town.  
  
Sam threw up when he saw the pictures, Jess rubbing his back as they waited for Jo to filter in with more news. “We all went to school together,” Jess told Dean. “Sam and Sarah dated for a year or so. He thinks I don’t know about them. Never told me. Probably thinks I’d be mad or something. But I get it. Sam wasn’t the first guy I loved either.”  
  
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Dean said. “I didn’t know her but Sam’s got great taste in girls.” He smirked. “Present company excluded of course.”  
  
“Oh, you are a dick. See if I give you painkillers next time you crack a rib.” Jess sighed. “I feel like this is only going to get worse.”  
  
“Ah, come on. No one bottoms out the league forever.”  
  
“I’m afraid Jess is right,” Castiel said, appearing in a flutter of wings. “The Devil has chosen his earthly form.”  
  
“That’s not good is it?” Dean crossed the room. “Where were the angels in all of this?”  
  
“They did all they could. But it was not enough.”  
  
“So who is it?” Sam asked emerging from the bathroom. “The Devil? Who did he pick?”  
  
“His name is Sidney Crosby.”  
  
Jess barked out a harsh laugh. “Sidney Crosby?”  
  
“Good one, Cas. You developed a sense of humor after all.”  
  
“I am quite serious. Dean, You may be the only person able to stop him.”  
  
“I’m not going to  _kill_ Sidney Crosby!” Dean exploded.  
  
Castiel stepped in farther, crowding Dean’s personal space. “Why not? You must kill the devil and at the moment the Devil and Sidney Crosby are one in the same.”  
  
Dean unconsciously stood up a little straighter. “I’m not going to kill him because he’s Sidney Crosby. He’s the most visible guy in the whole freaking league. “  
  
Sam snorted. “This from the guy who called me up in the middle of the night to tell me how much he wanted to kill Sean Avery two years ago?”  
  
“Completely different situations!” Dean growled. “You’re really not helping, my case here, Sammy.”  
  
“I can do it,” Jess said quietly.  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“The trainers, they use our facilities and our meds when they’re in our building. I can get my hands on some pretty nasty stuff. If I can get it in the right place. Mislabeled bottles for painkillers...”  
  
“You would only kill the host,” Castiel said. He looked carefully at Sam. “Not his essence. There is another able to withhold his power.”  
  
“We’re completely fucked aren’t we?” Dean asked.  
  
“I suspect the world will be gone within the week.”  
  


***

  
  
The week left and the world stayed where it was. The Rage lost another two hockey games, tempers starting to flare in the locker room. Gordon and Tricks very nearly came to blows over a prank gone bad. Vic Hendriksen stepped in to stop it.  
  
It was the first time in a long time Dean had looked forward to the end of the season. When the season was over, they could concentrate on heading off the Devil and everything would be all right.  
  
“May I speak with you, Dean?”  
  
Honestly, the last thing Dean wanted on the heels of a 4-1 loss was an powwow with their angel infested goalkeeper but, as Ben had pointed out a few days back, he’d kind of become heaven’s bitch.  
  
“I’m afraid there has been a development with the apocalypse.”  
  
“California’s gone,” Dean guessed. “Oh, God, please say California’s not gone.”  
  
“No,” Castiel said carefully. “It appears that game has taken on an unforeseen significance.”  
  
“Hold on. The game? You mean hockey? I mean I hate quote junior league coaches everywhere but hockey’s not life and death.”  
  
“We have known for years that the final battle would center around the NHL. But we had not fully comprehended the... magnitude of that implication.”  
  
“Magnitude? The devil hasn’t killed anyone since he picked Sid the kid as his prom dress. The Flyers haven’t killed anyone since you said the last seal fell. As far as things go, this is the most anticlimactic apocalypse ever.”  
  
“You do not understand, Dean. There have been no incidents because the battle has become framed so to speak in the game so that game is the battle and the battle is the game. The Pittsburgh Penguins have not been defeated since Lucifer’s ascension.”  
  
“Hold on, you’re kidding. Whether we win or lose the apocalypse depends on the outcome of the  _Stanley Cup_?”  
  
“The Rage plays the Penguins twice in the last four games. We may well be able to stop this before it gets too far.”  
  
“You’re hedging the apocalypse on the ability of the  _Lawrence Rage_  to win a hockey game? Do you have any idea how screwed up that is?”  
  


***

  
  
Dean did the only thing he could think of. He started calling Staal brothers. Jordon who actually played on the same team as Sidney Crosby (fuck,  _the Devil_ ) wasn’t picking up. He finally got through to Marc who answered on the third ring with an annoyed, “Winchester, what’s going on?”  
  
“Have you heard from Jordon? I can’t get through to him.”  
  
“And why exactly do you need to get in touch with my brother?”  
  
“Would you believe me if I told you the Devil’s playing ice hockey with him?”  
  
He heard a shifting from the other end of the phone. “Of course he is.”  
  
“Do you know what happened to him? Marc, I’m worried. I can’t get in touch with him or Eric.”  
  
“You can’t get in touch with Eric because he’s playing right now. I expect you can’t get in touch with Jordon because he broke his femur this afternoon and he’s probably doped up on painkillers.”  
  
“He broke his femur? He’s done for the season?”  
  
“How many games have you played with a broken femur?”  
  
“I got it, Marc. If you get in touch, tell him I said feel better. And that Sidney Crosby’s the devil.”  
  
“That’s a little harsh.”  
  
“No, you don’t understand,  _Sidney Crosby’s the Devil_ ”  
  
“Very funny, Dean,” Marc said and hung up.  
  


***

  
  
“The Devil’s possessing Sidney Crosby,” Ellen said slowly. “Exactly how did you get this information?”  
  
“Cas told me all right? He and his angel buddies seem pretty damn sure of it.”  
  
“So what you’re telling me is that we need to take a game off of the Pens if we want to stop the apocalypse.”  
  
Dean sighed heavily. “Sounds completely crazy but it’s true.”  
  
To his complete and utter shock, Ellen’s face split into a wide grin. “Good. It’s been too damn long since this team had a game that really meant something.”  
  


***

  
  
Mellon Arena was filled to capacity. Then again, Mellon Arena was always filled to capacity. Dean looked up from the ice into the sea of fans wearing black, white and powder blue. He couldn’t find a single Rage jersey. The roar was almost deafening.  
  
From the face-off circle, Sidney Crosby, Lucifer himself, hunched over as the referee circled around. Andy Gallagher stared back at him.  
  
“Game time,” Sam said from beside him.  
  
The puck dropped.


	11. The Devil's Doubleheader

They lost spectacularly.   
  
It was the most lop-sided game Dean had ever taken part in. And that included the year him and Sammy played together for their high school team when even Dean had gotten his chance to skate on the power play. He’d been on the right side of things that year.   
  
The Rage was on the wrong side this game. The Rage always seemed to be on the wrong side of blowouts. The bitter taste of defeat was all too familiar in Dean’s mouth.   
  
The Rage had looked disjointed the whole night. There was no continuity to their offense. Their defense was just overmatched. The Penguins, who had topped the league even before their star became the Devil’s meat suit, where just better than them.  
  
Ben especially had a hard time, his inexperience at the position shining through at every turn. Finally, midway through the second when the Rage was already down three, Ellen started to shuffle the pairings, coupling Sam with Ben and Harry with Dean. It didn’t help. Dean just felt wrong looking over to find Harry at his side instead of his brother and both Sam and Ben had the same unfortunate tendency to jump into the offensive zone, leaving Castiel facing the odd man rush.  
  
Even without the apocalypse looming over his head, the locker room would have been sour. Ellen bitched them out for a good twenty minutes before stalking out.  
  
There was a long uncomfortable silences that only broke when Tricks cracked a some smart-ass remark. He giggled at himself but no one else join him. “Come on, guys! What’s your problem?”  
  
“What’s your problem!?” Bobby echoed. “What is  _your_  problem, son? You’ve got more talent then almost any of the people in this room and yet, you’re making  _jokes_  as you end the year as a third line winger on the worst team in hockey. What would it take to make you wake up, boy?”  
  
“Most days?” joked Tricks. “A candy bar does it just fine.”  
  
“Christ, boy! If Braeden had half your skill he’d be leading the league in scoring. And God forbid you put that kind of talent into a Winchester. Or hell, your kind of size into Shirley or Gallagher.”  
  
“Exactly what are you trying to say here, old man?”  
  
“You’ve been on seven different teams in the past five seasons. You ever stop to think of why?”  
  
Tricks stared at Bobby, speechless for the first time since Dean had met him. Bobby nodded once and announced, “I’m going to go take my shower.”  
  
The room was silent for a long moment. Only Chuck Shirley moved, a pen and a pad of paper suddenly materializing in his hands, jotting down notes in some kind of short hand that Dean couldn’t make heads or tails of. “What the hell are you doing, Chuck?” Sam demanded.  
  
Chuck looked up sheepishly. “I’m taking notes. I really need to get this down.”  
  
“This is going to sound like a stupid question, but what the hell are you taking notes?”  
  
“I’m working on something,” Chuck admitted. “It’s going to be like Ball Four only for hockey.”  
  
“Put it away, Chuck,” Hendriksen ordered.  
  
The rest of the post game passed in silence.  
  


***

  
  
Tuesday was Tampa Bay. An overtime game that ended as Tricks blasted a slap shot past the goaltender for his second goal of a five point night.   
  
“You should have given him that kick way sooner, Bobby,” Dean commented as they made their way onto the bus back to the airport.   
  
“Wouldn’t have worked sooner.”  
  
“I’m just glad it worked now.”  
  


***

  
  
  
Washington at home. A Thursday night dogfight of a game. Gordon managed to goad one of the defensemen into a scuffle that got them both thrown out for the rest of the night. But despite playing short a defenseman, Washington had the upper hand for the entire night.  
  
Dean kept seeing flashes of potential. A crisp pass that got Andy off behind the defense. A combination play that would have made the highlight reel if the final pass was on net.  
  
It hadn’t ever been skill that the Rage was missing. It was coherency. They could do all the pieces right but never in sequence.   
  
Mostly on the strength of Hendriksen and Tricks playing out of their mind, they were in the game through two periods. But in the third, they got caught on a bad line change and the floodgates opened. They ended the game with a four-two loss.  
  


***

  
  
Then, all of a suddenly. It was their last game of the season. With the apocalypse looming, quite possibly the last game of their lives.   
  
The Pittsburgh Penguins had not lost a game in three weeks, had not lost a game since two games before the Devil took possession of Sidney Crosby. Castiel informed Dean that this could well be his last chance at the Devil. Said that they could beat them in the regular season or someone would have to win a series off them in the playoffs.  
  
Dean took a deep breath. He hadn’t been this worried about a game in a long time.   
  
The locker room was odd affair. They were already out of the post-season while Pittsburgh had clenched the conference. They had nothing to play for except pride.   
  
And between Chuck’s scribbling, Castiel’s chronic confusion and the worst record in the National Hockey League, Dean didn’t think the had a hell of a lot of that left.  
  
Before the game, Ellen came into the locker room, standing up on one of the benches so she could be seen. She cleared her throat. “Listen, I know most of you have checked out for the season. Recordwise, we’re one of the worst teams in the league. We’re sure as hell not making the playoffs. You might think we’ve got nothing left to play for. Well, I’m changing that. This last games, you’re playing for your jobs. I want to see your heart right now. When I put the team together for next year, I’m sure as hell going to look at what you did right here. I’m going to remember how hard you played when the big picture said you’d already lost. Today is where you find out who you are as a player. Today is where we find out where we are as a team. It’s about pride, guys.” She shuffled her feet, meetings each player’s eye in turn. “And that’s all I have to say about that.”  
  


***

  
  
It felt like they were a different team.  
  
Dean felt like he was twenty again. His knee felt good as new, he was seeing the puck, his hits were all coming hard. Beside him, Sam had found that balance in being an offensive defenseman. After ten minutes, Ellen had juggled the lines so that the Trickster was up top with Hendriksen and Singer. Andy and Chuck were picking the team apart with passing. Gordon and Jake were finishing all their hits.  
  
The defense was holding fast. Castiel’s catching glove was quick.  
  
No one scored.   
  
It wasn’t for lack of opportunities on either side. Sam had missed a lay-up on a one two pass. Ben, sprawling to the ice had just managed to break up a breakaway the other way.  
  
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Ellen told them at intermission. “This is the best hockey you’ve played all season. We can win this one.”  
  
Dean was starting to believe it. Starting to feel it running through the uncharacteristically large crowd. More then half the shirts were the black and gold of the Penguins but the low roar was building up, a chant of,  _Let’s go, RAGE_. The roar he’d heard in his days with the Boston Bruins. The one that screamed,  _this team is alive and this arena is alive._  
  
The scoreless game held until early in the third period when a few odd deflections off a shot on a Pittsburgh power play ends with Crosby tapping the puck into a wide open net.  
  
He could see frustration under Castiel’s mask. That surprised him more than the goal itself. Castiel never let anything like that show, never lowered himself to human emotions. But there it was.   
  
Over the next few minutes, it dawned on him.  
  
They were going to lose this game.  
  
They were always going to lose this game.  
  
Dean started breaking things down. He’d had a coach tell him this once, back when he was just starting high school hockey. The team in Michigan that year had been a chronically awful program.  
  
 _Don’t worry about the big picture. Win the little battles._  
  
Beat Crosby to the puck. Don’t let the offense get in behind you. Put all passes on a stick. Play fundamental.  
  
The game started to wind down. The score remained 1-0. Sam started jumping up on offense every time he could. Ellen dropped her checking line completely out of the rotation, trying to get their must needed goal.  
  
But Pittsburgh was better then them. Pittsburgh was better then them even if they weren’t aided by Hellfire.  
  
Dean started trying to pick a fight.   
  
It wasn’t something he liked to do. It was something that went against everything his dad had taught him as a kid and starting fights wasn’t something he was good at.  
  
But push come to shove, he and Sam were probably the best fighters in the league. Most of the league didn’t know it because they never dropped the gloves.  
  
He purposely got careless with the hits, running hard into every Penguin he saw, putting a little something extra in hits on Crosby.  
  
“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam hissed to him at the media break.  
  
“If we can’t beat the team. Maybe beating Crosby in a fight would be enough.”  
  
“Are you serious? You’re going to challenge the  _Devil_ to a fist fight? Do you have any idea how stupid that is?”  
  
“What else are we supposed to do?”  
  
“The game’s not over yet, Dean.”  
  
Only thirty seconds later, Evangi Malkin put in a goal from the weak side that somehow squirted past the near post. A minute over that, Dean threw a crushing hit and found himself a second later with gloves dropped squaring off against Matt Cooke.  
  
Cooke, not Crosby.   
  
He let Cooke throw the first punch, making it damn clear that he wasn’t the one that started this. Then, quickly and efficiently, he beat him down. The referees broke up the fight swiftly, Cooke dripping blood. The Rage fans in the arena gave Dean a standing ovation as he left the ice, headed to the locker room. There were only ninety seconds remaining in the game, in their season and the two goal lead was probably not something they’d come back from.   
  
Dean felt sick to his stomach.   
  
He heard the horn go off in the distance and that was it. Game over.  
  


***

  
  
The first time in years Dean hadn’t been involved in the Stanley cup playoff. A former LA King, Sam had never been to a post season.   
  
There wasn’t much they could do. Dean found himself at the practice facility almost every day because he didn’t know what else to do. Usually he had the hunt to distract him during the off season, but the supernatural world was all but silent, waiting for the result of the NHL playoffs.   
  
They took out a few ghosts in the area. Simple salt and burns because there was nothing bigger right now.  
  
The Penguins swept Florida in the first round of the playoffs, winning their ninth, tenth and eleventh games in a row. The Devils bowed out early to Canadians, a fact that Dean would have been more worried about if they were still all possessed by angels. The second seeded Capitals trounced Senators.  
  
Andy, Ben and Adam joined them to watch the second round opener between the Penguins and the Bruins. The series was more evenly matched then the last one. Dean was proud of them. He wasn’t a Bruin anymore but he still had his old jersey tucked up in his room and couldn’t help but rooting for the city he’d called home for more then four years.  
  
“You are serving alcohol tonight, right Dean?” Andy joked, looking at Adam and Ben, neither of whom had hit their second decade yet.   
  
“I had my first beer when I was twelve,” Dean said. “Of course I’m serving alcohol.”  
  
They got plastered that night, falling asleep before the game was even over. Sam and Jess leaning on one another on the couch. Ben and Adam, slumped limply on the floor. Adam curled up in their armchair.  
  
Dean wasn’t asleep. He’d woken up just past eight to a familiar flutter of wings. “Cas?” he called. “Cas! I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. I thought you would have flown the coop after the season ended.”  
  
“I have not been reassigned,” Castiel said. “I admit I am at a loss as to why. All of my brothers in similarly useless posts have been relocated so they could help with the fight.”  
  
Dean stopped for a moment, as a thought made its way through his skull, skirting past his hangover headache. “Hold. You said the people who couldn’t help where they were got reassigned. So you’re saying we can still do something.”  
  
“That is indeed my supposition.”  
  
A smile snaked across Dean’s face.  
  


***

  
  
“What’s got you so happy, Dean?” Jess asked as she staggered from the living room into the kitchen, rubbing at her neck.  
  
Dean poured her a cup of coffee and handed her a pair of Advil. “Cas is still here.”  
  
Jess took a hesitant sip of the coffee and downed both Advil in one swallow. “Why?”  
  
“Because there’s still something we can do to stop this.”  
  
“And what’s that, Dean?”  
  
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “Jess, I’m going to need tickets to the Stanley Cup.”  
  


***

  
  
In the end, the Bruins took one game off of the Penguins. The third game of the series. Dean woke up in the morning, having blown off the game because of a boo-hag hunt in Louisiana. When he saw the score, he felt a funny little balloon of hope in his chest. But a visit from Castiel confirmed that it would have been insufficient at this point. The only way to stop them was to knock them out of the playoffs entirely.  
  
Only a team didn’t win or lose on the virtue of one player, no matter how good they were. That was the Devil’s mistake in choosing the NHL as a venue for the apocalypse. There were five skaters on the ice at any time and five on the other team and the deeper they got into the playoffs, the more they all wanted it.  
  
“Sabotage, Dean?” Sam asked.  
  
“Between Jo and Jess, we can get into pretty much whatever building we need. So we sabotage. Maybe even try and get a hands on one of those bad luck charms Toronto early in that season. We put laxatives in the Gatorade. Nothing that’s going to hurt anyone. Just enough to put them off their game.”  
  
“And we do this for how long?”  
  
“However long it takes!”  
  
“I dunno, Dean. It seems a little bit amoral.”  
  
“Don’t you think I know that?” Dean growled. “Don’t you think it freaking hurts me to even think about this? But I’m not seeing a hell of a lot of choices here.”  
  
Sam swallowed heavily. “And what if Lucifer finds us?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “Then I guess we die.”  
  


***

  
  
Eastern conference finals: Capitals and Penguins, the NHL’s favorite match-up. Victor Hendriksen’s old team was headed by two-time league MVP Alexander Ovechkin, a Russian big rig who loved to put the puck in and into the net.   
  
“Penguins in seven,” Sam commented offhandedly as they clicked glasses and sat down on the couch.   
  
“I’d pick the Caps if it weren’t for Devil power,” Dean said, taking a sip of his own. “But you’re going to have a rough time finding someone to pick against Lucifer.”  
  
“Lucifer or not, I bet Ovechkin outscores him.”  
  
“I’ll take that action.”  
  


***

  
  
The series was close. Closer then any of the others had been. Closer then Dean had expected. He didn’t know why he was surprised. Before Lucifer had landed, the Capitals had headed the conference.  
  
It was three-two Capitals through five games, the Penguins facing elimination in the sea of red of Verizon center.   
  
The Winchesters made it a point not to watch the game. It was a full moon and there was a werewolf who’d been gutting cattle and the occasional farmer in a town in Tennessee. They got back just past midnight to ESPN’s rehashing of the Penguin’s 4-2 victory.   
  


***

  
  
They decided to watch game seven in the comfort of their home. Jess, Ben and Andy, forcing their way in to help the Winchesters pack up all their supplies for the Stanley Cup finals.   
  
Detroit had finished off San Jose in six games, awaiting the winner of this series to set the finals. Castiel showed up at the door about ten minutes before game time, knocking for once in his life instead of just teleporting himself in. “Cas?”  
  
“I have heard you are attempting to prepare. I would like to assist you in any way I can.”  
  
“Sure thing, Cas. But if you’re going to be here, you need to take off the tie. We’re just watching the game.”  
  
Castiel looked baffled so Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged him into the house. Ben and Andy both grunted their greetings as Jess handed him a beer.   
  
Something happened before the game though. Something that had Andy standing up to call, “Sam, Dean. Get in here!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“There was this light thing,” Ben said. “I don’t know what it was, but it definitely didn’t look like a camera flare.”  
  
Sam shook his head. “The one time I wish we had Tivo...”  
  
“Michael,” said Castiel and all eyes turned to him. “Can you not see it?”  
  
“You’re saying Michael’s picked his meat suit? Why not do that six games ago?”  
  
“It is entirely possible he was only now told yes.”  
  
“Who is it?” Jess asked.  
  
Castiel extended his finger somberly and pointed it at number eight in the red sweater.  
  
Andy chocked on his beer. “You’re kidding me, right? Alex Ovechkin? Hasn’t he been suspended like twice in the past few years because of dirty hits?”  
  
Jess snorted. “Well, Dean was apparently one of the other contenders so being a saint obviously isn’t a requirement.”  
  
“I don’t know about you,” Ben said, “but if the world depended on the outcome of a hockey game, I’d sure as hell take Ovechkin over Dean.”  
  
“Ouch, that hurts guys,” Dean trailed off for a moment as he thought about it. “No, I’d take him too.”  
  
“I do not understand,” Castiel rumbled.  
  
“Alex Ovechkin’s been the scoring leader in something like the past three seasons,” Sam explained. “He scored a hat trick off you earlier this year. How are you in this league and not know Ovechkin?”  
  
Castiel opened his mouth as if to respond but Dean pushed him down to the sofa. “Just watch.”  
  


***

  
  
If the world survived it, this was the kind of game that would turn into a classic. Two teams more or less evenly matched, fighting tooth and nail for every puck, every pass and every hit. Fluery and Varlamov on opposite sides of the ice each made a few heart stopping saves.   
  
Dean found himself caught up more in the game then in the apocalyptic battle. He had no particular love for either team but he loved good hockey and always had.  
  
The best thing about the game was who score and how. The fourth line center on the Capitals slung a shot in front of the net that bounced off a defensemen’s skate and into the net. The Penguins call-up that replaced Jordan Staal scored his first NHL goal to tie it up.  
  
In the second period, the teams traded power play goals coming within a minute of one another. The two star plays in the celestial battle seemed uncharacteristically invisible. As if their very presence cancelled one another out, leaving both of them powerless.   
  
The announcers commented on it, speculating on the reasons that were well known in the Winchester household.  
  
With thirteen seconds left, both teams and the fans whipped into the frenzy when the game the apocalypse ended in a messy scrum in front of the net. A rebound clanked off the crossbar and dropped in front of the net. Three different players from different teams all digging for it and then suddenly, the puck was in the back of the net, the red light blaring against the silence of the Penguins faithful.   
  
At the center of the messy Washington celebration was Brooks Laich, grinning from ear to ear as his teammates congratulated him.  
  
A few seconds later, the horn sounded and it was all over.  
  
The Winchester household erupted into cheers, the six of them, including the baffled Castiel pulled into a celebratory hug, the same that they might have seen on the ice at the end of a Rage game.  
  
On screen, the Capitals and Penguins lined up to shake hands. Crosby and Ovechkin eyed each other for a brief moment before their hands touched. Suddenly there was a flash of white light emanating from both players.  
  
The picture went white and then black.  
  
And Dean, smiling ear to ear, knew it was over.


	12. The Stanley Cup Finals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I am sorry for this one, but I was crying with laughter at this point)

The Detroit Red Wings won the Stanley Cup in six games.


	13. Epilogue: Next Season

Dean traced the edges of the familiar navy jersey, the gold captain’s C freshly stitched onto the left breast after Bobby’s retirement in the off-season. It was something he never would have gotten if he’d remained in Boston. Something he would never stop being proud of.  
  
There was a television playing ESPN on in the corner of the dressing room, Alexander Ovechkin in his heavily accented English saying, “I don’t know what happen. Just sometimes something bigger is there. And, you know, last season was not our season. So.., maybe it is this season.”  
  
He’d missed the finals unconscious in the hospital, Sidney Crosby lying a few beds over. Both were suffering something that their organizations described as an ‘upper body injury.’ They were both recovered fully and ready for the new season though no one could explain the mysterious simultaneous injuries.  
  
“Feel good,” Ovechkin told the report on the screen. “Ready to play.”  
  
Dean laced up his skates and pulled his pad on, followed by the jersey. Ben smiled at him from two lockers down as he grabbed his helmet.   
  
He clapped Jim Novak on the back. “Heard from Cas lately?”  
  
“Said he was going to see about watching a few of our games this season,” Jim replied in a voice that was both an octave higher and infinitely more Canadian then Dean remembered. “I told him I could handle the ice by myself. I think he was a little relived.”  
  
“Let’s go, Winchester,” Ellen called from her office. “Your warm up time starts in three!”   
  
The Trickster shook his head. “Oh she is not going to like the surprise I left for her on her desk.”  
  
“Do I even want to ask?” Adam queried,   
  
“Let’s just say it’s appropriate considering that we’re playing the Red Wings.”  
  
“You left her a squid on her desk?” Lucas guessed. “Seriously?”  
  
“Octopus, my young friend. I left her an octopus. What do they teach you kids in history nowadays?”  
  
Dean shook his head in amusement, but opted not to say a thing. Chuck was scribbling the conversation down in his book. Andy put a hand on his shoulder. “Put it away, Chuck.”  
  
Sam was standing a little ways away from the team holding a small velvet box in his hand. “You still got that ring, dude?” Dean asked.  
  
He snapped the box shut. “What? No! I’m just looking...” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m waiting for the right time, Dean.”  
  
“She’s going to say, yes you know. She’s got horrible tastes in Winchesters.”  
  
Sam choked out a laugh.  
  
“You can ask her tonight after we pick up the win. Now hurry up, we’ve got to get on the ice or you’ll never warm up those stilts you call legs.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam muttered, tucking the ring back into his locker. “Thanks, Dean.”  
  
“Now come on, bitch, we’ve got a game to play.”  
  
They skated onto the ice to the cheers of the home crowd.  
  
Dean’s knee felt good. The apocalypse was over. There were a few more navy and gold jerseys in the stand. His little brother was at his side, his teammates and his friends all around him.  
  
It was going to be a damn good year. 


End file.
